


Vagaries

by asmodeusyne



Category: True Blood (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmodeusyne/pseuds/asmodeusyne
Summary: AU: Jason doesn't appear to save Tara from Franklin, and Franklin decides to follow through on his plan to make her a vampire. Porn with a tiny bit of plot. Lots and lots of porn.





	1. Free

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a fic I wrote several years ago and had no place to really post. There isn't, strictly speaking, any non-con, but there's plenty of conflicted thinking. Warning for a ton of blood and nastiness. This is True Blood, so the squeamish should go watch Sex in the City or something.
> 
> I've also taken liberties with Franklin's backstory, which are fun. Anyway, enjoy.

Her face was a mask of rage, mouth contorted into a snarl. The bittersweet smell of human adrenaline was a familiar in his nostrils. It reminded him of her vengeful anguish the night they’d met, when he’d held that drunk, meaty human in place for her fists. The memory was sweet in his mouth. He thought of the first moments, the curiosity, the electric thrill of being close to her. Her despair and her pain was so raw it glistened. He wanted it back. He wanted her to want him, to feel what he’d felt, that delicious sensation of promise.

 _You don’t understand_ , he wanted to tell her. But he couldn’t. He could hardly see through the blood tears of rage. He wanted to shake her until she was sorry, even if it snapped her delicate human bones.

The arteries in her neck thrummed against his palm as they circled her neck. Seconds passed. The pressure on her throat was too much for her to speak, but those black eyes stared hate at him, wet like black acid.

He keened, gazing helplessly at her through a red film of blood tears. He had to ask her why, why do you want to die so much.

_Why do you want me to kill you?_

“Because the second I’m gone, I’ll be rid of you forever. I’ll be free. And you’ll have nothing.”

That was when he’d seized her neck and screamed in her face. That was when he knew she needed to die. He could not let it stand. She had to die.

He put his face close to hers. His words thickened through his fangs as the blinding, intoxicating scent of her fear filled his head. “Your heart is beating so fast. I want to feel it stop.”

He moved closer to her, let her feel the pressure of his body. He could sense traces of his blood, the blood she’d torn out of him, calling to him. He could feel her resolve starting to crumble, her knees going weak as he crushed the life out of her neck with his hands. All of a sudden, he opened them, and she almost buckled before he caught her.

She tried to breathe, a sobbing inhalation that rasped like a death rattle. All of the fight went out of her, and her face changed, tensing as though to ask why he had not done it. She hissed in breath, and whimpered in pain from her dislocated vertebra. The eyes that had looked fire at him now burned with a longing for for release, for mercy. For an end to it.

He held his face in her hands, and turned her head. His fangs, when they slipped into her throat, were gentle. Her sudden sigh was almost contented. But the fire was still there, in her blood. It burned through him, warmed him in the pit of his belly. Stolen life, streaking through his veins, soaking into the heart that didn’t beat. He savoured it, sipped it, let it pool on his tongue. Then he did something he had never in all his years managed to do. He _stopped_.

_Tara. Did you really think I was going to let you go?_

She was barely conscious when he carried her to the car. Her eyelids sunk over her eyes, but those eyes still watched him, half accusing, half resigned. They did not blink. They watched him in the rearview mirror him in the rear view mirror as he drove west. The sun was two hours from rising, and he needed to find the right place, and quickly. Her heartbeat was sluggish, and it would not be long before it halted altogether, without enough blood to fuel it.

He was determined to have that moment, have it all to himself, before he did the thing he ought to have done on the first night. When she understood by his words that he was the void, and she was ready to give herself up. He should have sunk fangs into her when he was still inside of her. But then, he reasoned, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.

Childish, really. This fickle game he’d played for the better part of a century. Make her immortal, oops, so sorry, that didn’t come off- but by then the mistake ensured there was no one left to apologize to. He didn’t even remember their names. All of them had bored or annoyed him in one way or another, and he’d murdered them for that crime. Tara was the only one to have escaped. Well, for a little while, anyway. He couldn’t let this one, this one that was so special, slip through his fingers. She wasn’t his, and had never been his. Time to start over. He carried her limp body to the back seat of his Chevelle.

Twenty minutes out on the parish road, he spotted what he was looking for. A tumbledown farm with a battered old for-sale sign nailed to the post. He knew at a glance it was empty, so he lifted her into his arms, and walked through the tall grass towards the sagging barn. A rusted old shovel was stuck into a moldy pile of hay, and he laid her down in the grass. It took him all of five minutes to make a suitable grave, carving it out of the ground with vampiric speed. Tara, meanwhile, tried to crawl away, but in vain. She was as helpless as a newborn, and she made a low noise of distress. It warbled into a sob, but she was too drained, and too broken to give it real voice.

He tossed the shovel away, and went to where she lay dying. Her eyes widened as he went down on all fours, covered her body with his. He stroked her hair, stroked her cheek, kissing her dark smooth forehead. Her skin was rapidly cooling from lack of circulation, and her heart beat reduced to a weak pulsing of the major valves.

“Why won’t you just let me die?” she asked, in an infinitesimal whisper.

“Because,” he said gently. “You want me to.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Roundheigh

Tara’s head swam. He used his fingers to make a deep gash in his own throat. His blood gushed down over her mouth. She’d tried to shut her mouth to the stream of blood, but she was too weak to close her jaw or turn her face away. The thick dark ichor filled her mouth, ran into her nostrils and eyes, and snaked down her throat. It tasted of copper and meat, and before she knew what was happening, some power compelled her to raise her head and put her mouth to the wound. 

“Yes,” he urged. “Drink me. Drink all of me.”

His snarl was muffled through those prodigious fangs, and his voice had a odd sucking, choked quality about it. Some tiny part of her realized he’d ripped into his own vocal cords when he’d torn his neck open. She sucked hard at the wound, the rusty, salty taste of him filling her mouth. 

Then too soon, he pulled her away. He grasped the base of her throat with one hand and pinned her back against the hard ground. She let out a cry of protest and tried to fight him, to reach the stream of blood still issuing from his jugular, but she was no match for his strength. Her heart, which had slowed to a crawl, was now beating so fast that it was causing spasms to chase through her body. She seized once, twice, like someone experiencing cardiac arrest. 

Then it slowed. Then she breathed. Then she didn’t. She watched his face through a dull fog, dimly aware of the mingled concern and eagerness in his white face. He bent over her, put his lips over her heart, as though he was sipping away the last beat. She felt an emptiness inside her chest when it ceased altogether. She sank into viscous darkness. 

Tara woke to the sharp scent of turned earth. Not only that, but the smell of insects, the scent of decay, and old leaves. A woody, vegetable smell that was the roots of a sapling, reaching towards her through the ground. She did not know how she was able to put a name to these scents, only that she could. The soil was the weight against her skin. She swam upwards through the darkness, and felt the soft brush of cool air as one hand burst through the surface. 

She clawed her way out of the ground, into a night that was alive with croaking frogs, whining cicadas, the rustling of leaves. It was a cacophony, and it thundered in her ears. She looked around her, seeing the world in colours that were richer and sharper than they ought to be, piercing into her brain like a migraine headache. Then she turned, looked behind her, and screamed. 

Franklin was waiting for her. 

\-----

“Get in the car.”

“No,” Tara said, hugging herself. Everything hurt. Sounds burned her skin. The sharp blades of the grass, their saturated colour, sawed through her eardrums. Her veins ached, a deeply unpleasant feeling that was unlike anything she’d ever felt. She could feel each and every one of them. It felt like there were razor wires under her skin. 

“I’m hungry,” she said, the words falling out of her mouth through the fangs that had descended the moment she’d felt that paralyzing rush of fear. They cut into her lip when she tried to speak around them. The cuts in her lip were not healing.

“I know.” Franklin was impatient. “Get in the car.”

“Fuck you.” She slurred. Her words were like mud in her mouth “You fucking killed me, you piece of shit.”

Franklin opened the passenger door of the old Chevelle and turned to her. “Tara, get in the fucking car or I will do it again. Permanently.” 

She didn’t want to get close to him, but her body seemed to act of its own accord, rising and staggering towards the car like a baby deer. As she passed him, she could feel a magnetic charge that seemed to pull her towards him. It was as though the sensation she had felt when she had still been human, the attraction that came from drinking his blood, had magnified a hundredfold. Still, she took care not touch him or brush him as she got into the car. The slamming of the door cracked through her skull. She bent over her knees and tried not to cry out. 

“Stop being so dramatic,” he snapped, his voice a whip on her skin. “It’ll go away once you’ve eaten.”

“Why don’t you just give me some TruBlood?” she asked in a small voice, trying not to hear herself. Her own voice stabbed into her ear drums. 

He rolled his eyes. “No baby vampire should start out on formula.”

She had to digest that. “Oh my god. You want me to kill someone.”

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

She shuddered, feeling nauseated. “I don’t.” 

His smile was unpleasant. “You will.”

They drove for what seemed like hours. Tara had no measure of time, and Franklin, normally loquacious, had fallen into a sulky silence. It was only when they crossed the Texas state line that Tara looked to him for an explanation.

“Where are we going?

“Roundheigh.”

Something dinged in her mind. She had heard of Roundheigh.

“I thought that was just gossip.”

The rumour had been that the governor of Texas had struck up a bargain with the vampire king of that state to contract the vampire community to handle the executions of death row convicts at a processing facility. It had been denounced by the vampire rights coalition as being exploitative of both humans and vampires, and no contract was ever made. 

Franklin drummed on the steering wheel. “Top secret. I helped negotiate the agreement.”

Tara took that to mean that he had glamoured, killed or bribed the right people.

The facility itself was small, far out into the woods and might have been mistaken for some kind of utility station, except that the gate was guarded by armed and uniformed vampires. It was isolated enough that anyone driving along the main highway would never guess its existence unless they happened to turn on to the unmarked dirt road. 

They parked. Franklin, seemingly concerned that she might try to bolt, took her hand and led her into the building. It was harshly lit inside, and the fluorescent lights vibrated against her temples in a headachy staccato. The featureless hallway led to an almost featureless room, though she did notice the floor was tiled, and there was a drain. The prisoner was stringy man with the look of a crystal meth addict. He contentedly in a chair and stared amiably at the white wall opposite him. He was glamoured.

As soon as they were inside the room, Tara was immediately seized by the smell of his flesh. He was rawboned and covered in badly drawn swastika tattoos, but underneath the stale jerky cigarette smell she could sense the pulse of his blood as it made its journey through his vascular system. Her mouth watered. His blood smelled different than Franklin’s. She smelled cloves, and butter and something alcoholic that was oily and acidic. He looked at her with mild indifference, and she felt the leaden fog that sat over his brain and prevented him from resisting. 

“This is Joe,” Franklin said, as though introducing them over tea and scones. “Joe. Meet Tara.” 

“Nice to meet y’all,” he said in a voice that was thick, like the words had been artificially slowed down. 

“Tell Tara what you did,” Franklin said lazily, examining his fingernails.

“Kilt my auntie. Shot her dead. Shot her poodle, too. Took her wallet. Bought some drugs and some potato chips.”

“Why is it,” Tara sighed, half to herself. “That evil people are always so goddamn stupid.” 

Franklin flashed his jack-o-lantern smile. “Lack of practice. Most people don’t live that long.”

Tara glanced at him, and he nodded his chin towards the convict. Then crossed his arms, waiting. 

She turned to Joe. His head had lolled to the side, his skin taut over the place where his jugular throbbed. As she moved closer, the strange little muscles in her upper mandible contracted. Her human teeth retracted, and her fangs descended. They ached, but unlike every other physical sensation she had experienced tonight, it was a good ache. 

She put her mouth on the skin of Joe’s neck, and her instinct took over, driven by the maddening smell of hot blood. They slid easily into his neck, and the blood gushed into her mouth. At once, it filled her mouth. It coursed down into her, touched the pain and dissolved it. She was flying, human blood singing through her veins and warming her from head to foot. Her skin tingled, and she closed her eyes, letting the warmth soak into her body. It was like bubble baths, chocolate truffles, and shotgun orgasm. She hummed against Joe’s neck, a low moan of pleasure. 

She was suddenly aware of Franklin’s touch, his fingers on her cheek. She was too distracted by her meal to reach to push him away, and even so, she felt something coiled in her tighten at his proximity. She could feel his breath as he bent down to whisper in her ear.

“Slowly. Feel the heart beat. Don’t go too fast, or you’ll have to work harder to suck it out. Let the heart do the work for you. Let it bring you the blood.”

His voice was sensual, soft, and it seemed to crawl over her skin. She felt her body relax, and sipped almost gently at the ragged puncture wounds her abnormally long fangs had made. She lapped, and sucked, feeling the slow thrum of his heart as it struggled to circulate the blood. Struggled as hers had struggled when Franklin had opened her throat. Only she had been terrified. Her pounding heart had delivered her blood gushing into his mouth as though wanted to be there. 

Suddenly, she pulled away from Joe. He was drooping, but there was still blood left in him. She turned his face and looked at him. The fuzziness that seemed to encircle his head was not difficult to tap into. She pulled it into herself, aware that Franklin was watching her with fascination, perhaps even pride. 

“Joe,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re gonna die now, and I know inside you ain’t at peace with that. You know it, too, don’t you?”

“I don’t-” his eyes went wide, and suddenly his whole body went rigid as the glamour evaporated. He tried to get up, but he was cuffed to the chair. “Oh my god. Get away from-”

She was on him. Faster than he could breathe, she ripped open his neck. His heart jackhammered. His blood, dark heart’s blood, sprayed into her mouth like a jet. He cried out, strangled and incomprehensible. Suffused with terror and adrenaline, his blood was intoxicating, and Tara’s tongue licked frantically to get the last of it, delving into the ragged hole. Finally, his body completely drained, his heart silent, Joe flopped over, and slid to the floor. He was chalk white, and his skin had taken on a shriveled quality.

Tara was still for a moment, lost in the glow. When she raised her head, Franklin was watching her. Without the pain of starvation, she could focus now, could see him with her vampire vision. The blackness of his hair and his clothes seemed to suck the light in around them and swallow it. His fangs were down, and his lips were parted. His pale eyes were watching her with an unblinking hunger.

Tara licked her lips. “Franklin.”

“Tara.”

“Take me to a motel room, and fuck me.”


	3. Inside Under

The vampire motel in Longview, Texas was conveniently located. It was underground, a series of old Cold War bunkers that some enterprising soul had converted into a vampire inn. Franklin left his mastercard at the front, and led her into the hallway. They staggered through the door, tangled up in each other, mouths locked and tongues duelling through extended fangs.

Franklin kicked the door shut behind them. Tara grunted when he slammed her against it, then felt a purr rise through her as he resumed his attentions. His mouth was greedy on hers, and he hissed when she bit down on his tongue. His blood was something different from the convict’s. There was something familiar, comforting in it. It seemed to tug at her insides, to whisper through her mind.

Tara knew it was deceptive, the feeling. She knew it was the blood kinship they now shared. She hated him, wanted to disabuse him of his romantic psychosis, but in this moment, he felt so good. She was high, her mind awash in blood, and his hands, his mouth, his cock pressing against her through his jeans, it made her ache. Her fingers spidered over his chest, seeking out the mother of pearl buttons. Their hard shiny smoothness delighted her fingertips. She felt drunk, but without any of the thick headedness or dizziness. Her skin soaked in each sensation, each texture. The tension as she tugged his shirt open, the clicks as each snap gave. Little miracles.

She would have taken the time to explore him as she had not done, to taste his scars, to tease him. But she was too impatient. She shoved him back towards the bed, and he allowed himself to be pinned.

“Tara.” He said her name, letting the vowels curve in his mouth. On impulse, she reached back her hand and slapped him across the face. His head snapped to the side, mouth bloody where those long fangs had caught on his lip. His expression hardly changed, his eyes still unblinking, pupils dilated in the pale blue irises, a junkie shooting to the moon.

He licked the blood off his lips. “Bitch.”

“That’s right,” she drawled. Nothing in her voice resembled the breathy anxiety to please she had affected when he’d trussed her up like a Christmas ham. She raised her hand again, this time delivering a backhand blow, turning his head the other way. He pulled her down against him, and shoved his tongue up roughly into her mouth. He moaned, and the sound filled her, creeping down her throat, squeezing on her heart. His hands slid up her flanks, under the filthy, blood stained tanktop, and lifted it off her body.

She curled over him, breasts pressing against his face, her fingers tightening in his crow feather hair. He kissed her skin, drew one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked it into hardness as his hands moved deftly, tugging her pants off in a fluid, effortless movement. One finger hooked under her panties and tested her, making her writhe.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said in that blood-soaked voice. _Your heart is beating so fast._

She gasped at his touch. It was true, she was wetter than she’d ever remembered having been as a human. He cupped her ass with one hand, and slid the other into her panties, pushing them aside so two fingers could slide inside of her.

“Oh my god” she breathed. Then again, her voice rising an octave as he crooked his fingers as though he was beckoning her. His face was predatory, his lips parted and his eyelids dropped to half mast, as though he was feasting on her pleasure, drinking it in.

“I want you inside me,” she said, the merest hint of a whisper.

A throaty laugh. “How bad?”

_So bad I could die._

He seemed to know she couldn’t say it. His fingers pressed into her, pressed her G spot hard enough to make wetness course over his hand. Then he slid them out, and licked them. Tara noticed there was a reddish tinge to what glistened on his fingers, a thin film of blood. Like everything else in her, composed of blood.

_When he came inside me, when I was still human, it was his blood._

“Tell me, Tara. Ask me. I want to hear you say it.”

_Your heart is beating so fast. I want to feel it stop._

“Franklin.”

In a motion too fast to be entirely perceived, he shed his jeans and toppled her on to her back. Then he held back, grinning wickedly, the head of his long, bow shaped cock teasing into her wet slit. Her panties he tore slowly, almost leisurely, letting them rip seam by seam until they were nothing but shredded fabric. He let them fall, and moved his hand over her belly, sliding up over the muscles in her abdomen. She felt herself flutter inside, and squirmed, her blood crying out to him. His blood inside her, in her very skin.

“Say it,” he hissed, and this time it was a snarl.

She relented. She begged. “Fuck me, Franklin. Please.”

He slid his entire length into her, gasping. She arched, and felt him fill her as though he occupied more than just the depth of her cunt, but the width and depth of her lower body. She hooked her leg over his shoulder and he braced himself against it as he drove into her, long, hard repeated strokes. With his fingers, he teased at her clit, circling it lightly with his thumb.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again as he pressed his forehead against hers. At that distance her human eyes would not focus, but as a vampire she could see perfectly into the clear depths of his blue. His eyes stayed open as he kissed her even more deeply, his tongue thrusting down into her mouth in echo of the thrust of his cock inside her. His hips ground against hers, and that animal noise rumbled up from deep inside him. Still he watched her, seeing her as he had seen her that first night, though how she knew it, she could not tell. Only that his face was the same feral mask it had been when he’d held that redneck’s arms behind his back, his eyes locked on her while she demolished the man’s face with her human fists.

_You would’ve killed him if I hadn’t stopped you._

_I wanted to._

Looking into his eyes, she saw into the black depths of his cruelty. The rattlesnake crazy, the capriciousness, the jealousy. But she could also taste his desperation on her tongue, like an ache in her mouth. The loneliness and confusion. She breathed it in like smoke.

He pressed his thumb over her clit as he executed one deep, hard stroke inside her.

“Come for me,” he ordered.

As though her body was responding to the command, she felt all her muscles inside twist around his cock. She felt it throb inside her as her hips twisted, too, and the elastic waves of tension and release washed over her body. He swallowed her choked cry, kissed the blood tears that welled at the corners of her eyes, and pinned her down as her lower back bent upwards like a bow. He turned his head, exposing his throat to her, and she knew at once what he wanted because she wanted it too.

She ripped open the flesh, her fangs tingling as the sank into his neck. Dark thick Franklin blood spilled over her mouth as she worried the wound, opening up his jugular to the air. She slid her tongue up into the thick vein, probing the inside.

“Fuck!”

His whole body went rigid. His hips bucked, and she could feel him coming, feel him spilling, like a cool jet spraying inside her. She sucked from his neck until the wound closed, then fell back on the bed, shivering and shaking like one sick with fever. She could feel his tremors, feel them in time with her own, rippling back and forth until the ebb finally slowed. It was a long time before it to subside entirely, and when it did, they were still wrapped up together, not breathing. Above ground, the sun had risen, and darkness swallowed them whole.


	4. Give the Void a Kiss

She was going to wake soon. Franklin sat up against the headboard, folded his hands in his lap and watched her. For a vampire, he’d always been a bit of an early riser, but most new vampires didn’t wake until the sun was completely set. He estimated that would happen in five minutes, and then his baby vampire would wake. He had a sinking feeling that she was going to be angry with him. Sure, they’d shared a moment- okay, a fucking good moment, quite unlike anything he’d ever experienced with another vampire- but he was cognizant enough to recognize it wasn’t because of her overwhelming passion for him. He’d shared blood with another vampire, but he’d never enjoyed the subtle power of he had over Tara’s flesh. He could control the ebb and flow of her blood, call to it, find her no matter how far or how long she ran.

But he could not quench her hatred, her contempt towards him. He could not order her to love him, or even to like him. He could not glamour her or control her thoughts. Her body and blood, through some weird vampire dogma, was his to command. But her soul was untouchable. And he knew, instinctively, his power to exert his will over her would eventually weaken as she grew stronger.

“You know,” she said, even before her eyes opened. “All that shit I said before, when you tied me up, dressed me up like your little slave doll, that wasn’t true.”

“I know,” he said, feeling a weight settle in his chest. Of course he’d known. That knowledge had lived side by side with the knowledge that his little fantasy would end the same way it always had: a full belly, and an empty, drained corpse. He thought about it, her used body dumped out by some highway, and felt a stab of pain, embarrassment. And perhaps a little fear.

“You took what I didn’t want to give.” Her words were cold, not at all the tantrum he’d expected. “You raped me, and abused me, and murdered me. I don’t know what else you’re planning, but if it’s worse than all of that-”

He raised himself from the bed and turned to face her, giving back every bit of her penetrating stare. “I made you immortal.”

She slid out of the bed, and leaned against the corner post, her taut black body reminding him of a panther. Strength coiled under the lazy exterior and she had an easy grace she had not had as a mortal. She watched him as his eyes travelled over her, unable to help himself. And he watched her, as her eyes lingered on his wiry frame, his scars from long ago.

“What do you think this is?” she asked, her slide-guitar accent enhancing her contempt. “Fucked up. You fucked it up. You fucked me up.”

His mouth twisted in a sneer. “Okay. I fucked you up. What do you want me to say?”

A tiny flicker of hurt crossed her face. “Are you even going to pretend you’re sorry?”

In a blink, he closed the distance between them, enjoying the jerk of shock that went through her as his arms came around her. “Why? I’m not sorry. It was fun. I enjoyed it. I would do it again. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

She looked up at him, disgust written all over her face, but she did not try to duck away or push him back. She just glared.

“It was my fear you loved,” she said, and then pushed her chin out defiantly. “I ain’t afraid no more.”

It was true. Her fear, that heady intoxicant, had hardened into something he could not consume. But he sensed in her now something that reminded him of a tonic he could savour. She’d killed in front of him, without hesitation or thought, and just the thought made his cock hard. The memory of her beating the living shit out of that human trash had shown him what it was, more than her fear of him, that he found so irresistible. It was embarrassing now to think how much time had wasted with games, when all he really wanted was to taste that sweet acrimony again.

“It’s not your fear I want,” he whispered.

Her lower lip quivered, but her jaw was set. “What do you want from me?”

His mouth twisted up into a smirking smile as he, slowly, backed her against the rough stone wall.

“Your rage,” he confided in a whisper. “Your anger. Your exquisite violence. When you broke that rube’s face open like a fucking pinata, it was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

He kissed her quivering lip, sucking into his mouth, letting the tip of his nose brush against hers.

“Why?” A note of pain in her shuddering voice. “Why do I want you so badly? It’s worse than when I drank your blood.”

He nosed against her cheek, inhaling the scent of her- something less tangible than scent, really, more just a recognition of something familiar that tingled where his skin touched hers. “I’m inside your skin, now. Every fiber of you. Your blood knows mine.”

She didn’t shy or try to push him away as he cupped her ass. Her fury melted away, and her lips parted with helpless want. More than that- it was crippling need. He pressed her against the wall and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him as he slid his cock into her, knowing he would find her wet. He wanted her wet for him, and so she was.

The defiant tension seemed to go out of her as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her thighs gripped his waist as he moved in her, a slow, lazy rhythm. Her head tilted back, and he kissed her dark throat. His tongue flickered out over the jugular vein, and raised it. He could smell the convict’s blood chasing through her veins.

“Bite me,” she breathed.

“Say you want me to,” he intoned.

“Franklin.” His name was a hiss, full of frustration and desire. Hearing it gave him a shiver of pleasure, almost as much as the feeling of her flesh yielding for his fangs. He sealed his mouth over the wounds and a sustained groan filled his chest. The whine of pleasure that escaped her resonated in his teeth, and he gripped her neck in his hand, his fingers digging into her soft skin.

Her blood was enriched from last night’s meal, and he felt his veins perk up, his skin tingle. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been. The prospect of hunting with her gave him a jolt of pleasure. Not wanting to delay that pleasure any longer, he resolved to finish. He thrust into her, once, twice, coming inside her hard and fast.

She came when he did, not the earth shattering orgasm of the night before, but still arresting enough to make her cling to him and whimper. She held fast to his shoulders, her body going limp between him and the wall. He kissed and licked the wounds in her neck until they sealed and disappeared.

“There is something wrong with me,” she said, and there was a faint hint of a sob in her voice. Then, intractable Tara took over. “I hate you so fucking much. How do you make it feel so good? It shouldn’t feel good to fuck someone you hate.”

Still nestled between her legs, he crooked a finger under her chin, and lifted it. “Do you remember what I said to you the night we met?”

She understood him at once. “You said I lost myself to the void.”

He quirked an eyebrow. She stared into him. He stared back into her, and smiled.


	5. Sinful City

Tara showered quickly, not doing more than rising the blood and dirt residue off her body from the night before. She’d insisted that Franklin leave her alone to do this, and he’d obliged, with a smug face. Once by herself, she marvelled at the way the dirt and blood just flaked off and dissolved. It was as though her pores had tightened, her skin becoming smoother and less penetrable than human skin. In five minutes, she was clean. Perhaps cleaner than she’d ever been as a human. She examined herself in the tall mirror set into the rock. While her body had not in any way been depleted of colour, her dark skin now seemed to give off a faint radiance, as though it had become slightly reflective. None of the matted chalkiness of her maker’s English complexion. She reached inward for that new reflex, tensing something inside the front of her skull that caused her fangs to flick down.

They were easily larger than the fangs of any other vampire she’d met or seen, with exception to Franklin’s. Maybe a hair smaller than those of her maker, but almost precisely the same shape.

Fucking damn, she thought. He put pieces of himself in me.

She wondered what else she’d inherited from him, and then decided she didn’t want to know. She went out into the bedroom to find one of his black shirts laid out for her. She said no word of thanks, though she was secretly relieved. She had not wanted to try and get back into the sticky, ruined mess that was the tank top she’d been buried in. Her jeans were not that much worse for wear- a few spots of blood, a patina of dirt- so she slid into them.

Franklin’s shirt was a little loose on her, but she didn’t give it another thought. Only after she was dressed did she acknowledge his presence. He lingered by the doorway with an indulgent smile.

“Hungry?” he asked, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Of course she was hungry. Of course he knew it. She said nothing, but brushed past him, making her way down the hall towards the exit.

“I’m driving,” she said as they walked up to the Chevelle.

“You’re driving?” he repeated, incredulous.

She held out her hand for the keys, twitching her fingers impatiently in a “give it” gesture.

Looking nonplussed, he reached into his pocket, and dropped them into her palm. She gave a little proud toss of her head, and then got behind the wheel. Franklin folded himself into the passenger seat and watched her expectantly.

“Where are we going?”

Some inscrutable instinct told her what to do. She closed her eyes, rolled down the window and listened. In the distance, the sound of honky tonk, a babel of slurred voice, and more distinctly, the roar of Harley Davidson motorcycles. She opened her eyes and looked at Franklin, who nodded his approval. She put the car in gear, and pulled out of the lot.

Tanker trucks passed them going the other way, and Tara toyed with the idea of jerking the wheel to the left. A head on impact was almost guaranteed to create a fireball large enough to consume her and Franklin both. But she pushed the thought away. She wasn’t ready to die yet. There was still more to explore, at present her curiosity was more powerful than her misery.

Her eyes flicked over to Franklin, who had not appeared to have guessed her thoughts. Instead, he stared out the passenger side window, looking at nothing at all. Even for a vampire, there was little to stimulate in Longview. She considered him, then made a concerted effort not to look at him. Could she kill him? How? When? She had sussed out that he had some kind of physical control over her. Sookie had told her that unless released, vampires had to obey their makers. She hadn’t understood just how visceral it would be. And the effect to which Franklin had used it on her- causing her body to be sexually attracted to him- that left a sour taste in her mouth.

She put it aside. It was a problem for later.

The bar was at the very edge of town. It had the feel of a Hell’s Angels pledge, but there were probably more posers than gang members. Music blared out of the low, long shack, and a few stringy looking women were hanging about the front entrance. She could smell some acrid smell coming off their leathery flesh, but she couldn’t quite name it.

“Meth,” Franklin supplied.

“Some things don’t never change,” she said, pulling up the parking brake. She saw that behind the bar, there was a yard full of big rig trailers. She watched unblinkingly, waiting for a signal. Two figures, one male, one female, staggered together around the back of the bar, disappearing into the forest of trailers. Then she was off, moving so fast that the details of the world around her stretched and blurred. In a heartbeat, she found what she was looking for.

Her hand seized the stained collar of the redneck, and tossed him effortlessly into one of the wheel wells, where he crumpled. The hooker, one of the lizard women with prematurely aged face and sour smell, opened her mouth to scream. It was cut short when Tara’s hand went around her throat.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snarled, her fangs already down.

“Please,” the woman garbled. “Please, I have kids.”

“Oh yeah?” Tara hissed, giving her a little shake. “They ain’t gonna miss you, you stupid bitch.”

 

The rage that was surging through her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wanted to reach down this woman’s throat and rip her heart out by the roots. Yes, she was going to die, Tara decided.

“You’re weak,” she spat, demented. “You had a choice. You let this happen. You let him hurt you. You let him do those things to you. You liked it, you fucking whore.”

The hooker, whose eyes bulged, was just aware enough to register confusion.Tara shook her again, like a terrier shaking a rat. Through the blood mist, the face that begged had turned into her own. Her own eyes, wide with black rage, ringed in blood. Her mouth, a grimace of despair.

She screamed, ripping the the woman’s head halfway off her neck. Without thinking, she surged forward, fangs first. The hooker twitched and jerked like a clubbed fish, dying quickly now that the spine was the only thing holding her head on. Tara shoved her face into the shredded stump of her neck and inhaled as much blood as she could. Then she grasped the woman’s skull and crushed it, the bones cracking under the skin. A strangled sob escaped her, and she sat down in the dirt, hugging the maimed, ruined head to her chest.

“Tara.” Franklin’s voice was soft, the note of concern alien and unfamiliar to her.

“Are you happy?” she cried. He ducked as she pitched the head at him. “This is what you did. This is what you made.”

Franklin stepped around the unconscious redneck and stood over her, watching her intently. She gazed back at him helplessly, her shoulders sagging. She felt like a child, legs splayed in front of her, sticky mess covering her from mouth to navel.

He crouched down so he could look her in the eye. Something in him, something underneath the swollen narcissism and selfish desire, seemed to sense her anguish. He made as if to reach out to her, but stopped.

“It will pass,” he said finally. He did not elucidate.

Tara searched into his white face, dimly perceiving the details, the sharp angles, the roguish five o clock shadow, the now-blue now-green of his hooded eyes, but could see no answers.

“How do you know?” she demanded, lifting her hands to see the blood and gristle clinging to them.

He tilted his head. “Because I was worse.”

“How?” she asked, disbelieving.

“Because,” he said, his words halting. “My maker turned me, and left me. Even now, I don’t know anything about him...or her. You remember how you felt, before you first fed. I killed an entire village before I got a grip. Men, women. Children.”

Tara stared openly at him. His empathy, his patience, his sudden introspection could almost have fooled her into thinking he was the same person he’d been the night they’d met.

“Children?” She felt a sharp jab, remembering the hooker’s plea to her. I have kids.

Not anymore you don’t. You don’t have anything now.

Franklin’s tongue traced the flat edge of his human teeth, as though considering his words. “I’m not proud of it. I know I’m not...I know I’m a bit mad. But I’m not…”

Tara felt something twist inside her like a knife. She realized with surprise that it wasn’t her pain, but his. And somehow, it was worse. She didn’t understand. And then she did. “You had children.”

He said nothing. She wondered. Then she sensed a flicker of the truth. Horror blossomed inside of her, and she struggled to pull herself away from comprehension.

He rose and looked down upon her, his mouth a rigid line. The agony inside her turned numb. Whatever knowledge he was keeping back, it was a flaming coal too hot to touch. Long practice had taught him how to unremember.

“Get up,” he said harshly. “We can’t stay here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, very quietly.

He sneered. “Don’t pretend that you feel compassion for me, Tara. I don’t need your fucking pity.”

Slowly, she rose, and took a shaky breath, forgetting she didn’t need to. Her confrontational nature made it hard for her to demure, but she found even footing inside herself. He had already turned to go get the car, but she reached out and caught his hand. He turned, annoyed, but didn’t slap her hand away.

She looked him right in the face. “If you knew anything about me you’d know I ain’t no good at pretending.”

He gazed long at her, as though trying to see through her eyes into her mind, but unable to. His cold fury seemed to flag. He looked down at the hand that held his, dark against his. The hooker’s blood stained his fingers. He pulled away and started towards the car, and she watched him lift them to his mouth.

\----

“Where are we going?” Tara asked, after an hour of sustained silence. Franklin was behind the wheel, now. Draining the redneck had not dulled his new edge, but he did seem more focused now.

“Dallas,” he said absently. He was staring over the wheel into the darkness.

“Why Dallas?”

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you.”

“Well fuck, never mind.”

The minutes dragged, and then he looked over at her. “We’re going to get a flight to Las Vegas. It’s the easiest place in the world to get ready currency. I have credit cards, but I’d rather not have Russell checking my receipts.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Russell has access to your credit cards?”

He pursed his lips. “He thinks I’m irresponsible.”

“Big surprise.”

He glared at her. She desisted and turned her face away, smiling to herself.

They stopped at a medium sized shopping centre. Franklin put a Mastercard in her hand, and went off to occupy himself while she picked out a few essentials. Feeling a shockingly familiar and shallow thrill (usually brought on by payday and a good markdown sale) she made her way into a department store and went to work.

She spent easily twice the amount of what Sam Merlotte paid her in a month. She added two pairs of jeans, a few tank tops and sundries, a black suede leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of gorgeous snake skin boots to her small arsenal. The confusion and grief of the previous hour felt more distant and less painful as she looked at herself in the mirror. She felt more normal than she had since this entire mess had fallen on her. Maybe even a little better than normal. She shot the lapels of the jacket as she walked out.

Franklin was waiting for her in the food court, looking completely out of place. Amidst the formica and fluorescent lights, he was like a black hole. His skin looked even more sallow than usual. Completing the weirdness, he was sipping TruBlood through a straw while he browsed an Ikea catalogue.

Even if someone failed to notice he was a vampire, he had a distinct whiff of the outsider. But, had she passed him by as a casual viewer, Tara had to admit she would’ve stopped to check him out. With his black curls, bright blue-green eyes, and deep cheekbones, he was an undeniably striking man. The way he was continually sipping like a little kid with a Big Gulp was almost endearing.

He caught her looking, and a little half smile twitched on his face. She wove through the mostly empty tables over to him, and sat down.

“Here,” he said, pulling another TruBlood out of a shopping bag. Tara twisted the cap off, took a sip, and then gagged.

“Oh my god, that’s nasty.”

“Shhh,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “We like TruBlood. Especially in public.”

Tentatively, Tara took another sip, and grimaced. True, it did send a little zing through her veins, but it did not taste like human blood, nor did it warm her the way human blood did. It tasted like salt and metal filings. She tried one more sip, and then pushed it away.

“I know,” Franklin said in an undertone. “We’ll get something when we land.”

The flight was not pleasant, but it was short. Franklin had an Anubis Air account, and he was able to upgrade to a double travel coffin so they could stay together. At first Tara wanted to balk, but as they closed the metal lid over them, she found she was grateful to have his arms around her. From the moment they had left Longview, he had not made any gesture of affection or desire towards her, and it was strange to think of how lonely it had made her feel. Was that his influence? Could he evoke desire from her, and then put her in the cold? Either way, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. Safe, even. That was almost frightening. Sleep washed over them as dawn came. His lips were still pressed to her forehead when they woke.

The limousine shuttle for the Hotel Carmilla met them at the airport. Franklin was still muted and broody as he dropped himself back into the seat, but Tara could not repress a childish wonder. She had never been outside of Louisiana, and she had certainly never been in a limo. She pressed her face against the glass to watch the procession of glittering signs, the lights illuminating the overwrought facades of the great casinos and gambling dens.

The room was just as impressive. A light tight room with en suite jacuzzi and a king sized bed. Franklin seem completely bored by his surroundings, as jaded as any business traveller, but Tara couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to touch the silken grey and red damask duvet. She turned to see Franklin watching her intently, his head a little ducked, as though he was expecting to be upbraided. Tara considered him. He had so many personalities, it was difficult to keep track. Companionable gentleman, manic depressive paramour, persecuted victim, and now this downcast vulnerability. Tara thought she knew better than to be fooled, but she knew beyond a doubt that whatever this was, she had touched some ancient hurt inside him, and he would brook no further inquiry.

She approached him, and didn’t say anything- no caveats, no “this doesn’t mean what you think it means”- because she sensed that she had finally shaken him out of that fantasy. When she rested her hands on his chest and looked up into his visage with its pursed lips and drawn brows, she felt no subtle exertion on her body, nothing beyond the natural pull of his flesh and blood that came from their kinship. It was though his shock back to reality had sapped him of his will or desire to force her arousal. Without the weight of his influence, she wondered about her own power, whether the blood worked in reverse, whether she could evoke impulses, desires in him. Looking at his face, she decided she would wait to try. She wanted to use her hands. And her mouth.

Without breaking her gaze, she let her fingers creep under his shirt. He cooperated, raising his arms above his head so she could lift it off, but he did not reach for her, merely watched her as she explored him. He was fit, and lean, but with none of the ostentation of the protein shake drinking gym rat. It was a different kind of fit- tooled muscle developed over a lifetime of combat. Not perfectly symmetrical, nor unblemished. Her fingers found hardened scars, a few diagonal lines on his right flank, as though he had been slashed. There was also a pattern of small dents, situated on the muscle to the left of his navel. She dipped her finger into one of the dents, testing the depth.

“What made this?” she asked.

His eyebrow arched. “A morningstar.”

“A what?”

He looked meaningfully at her. “You bashed my head in with one.”

“Oh.” Tara felt an absurd stab of chagrin. Then she looked at his face, his slight pout, and burst out laughing. She put a hand on her chest as though to steady herself, head bent down as she giggled, and gasped. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

Franklin put both hands on the back of her head, and pulled her mouth roughly to his. She squeaked with surprise, then let herself melt into it. His tongue scraped over her lateral teeth, and she made a small involuntary sound as her fangs dropped. He pulled away, and the wicked smile had returned to his lips. He lifted her chin in his thumb and index finger and looked down at her.

“Let me see.”

She drew back her upper lip to show him her fangs. He thumbed them, looking satisfied. “Lovely. You’ve got mine.”

“Did you know that would happen?” she asked, taking his hand and pulling him towards the bed.

“No,” he admitted. “It turns me on, though.”

He surprised her by dropping down on to his knees. He looked up at her as he pressed a kiss to her navel, and she shivered.

He tugged the button of her jeans open. “Everything about you turns me on.”

She stood, paralyzed as he eased the jeans down off her hips. His eyes flicked up to hers again, wicked eyes, eyes that said, “I want you to watch me while I do this to you.”

He hooked a finger into her panties and pulled them aside, revealing her cunt. She was already wet when his tongue delved into her slit. She could feel him smile against her skin as her spine bent forward. She slid her hand into his hair and gripped it as his tongue lapped at her, teasing, probing. She panted, her muscles contracting inside. His fangs slid down, and he angled his mouth so that the wide ivory curve of his left pressed against her clit.

She came, crying, in a hot wet rush. With a growl, Franklin turned his head and sealed his mouth over her, sucking down the fluid that issued from inside her.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She gasped, her spine vacillating back so she was half on the bed. Franklin rose, grinning like the world’s most evil boy scout, and pushed her legs apart.

Then he stopped, held back, and she looked up at him in dim confusion.

“Get on top of me.”

Tara raised an eyebrow, then shifted out from under him and pressed him back on the bed. She straddled him, sinking languidly down on to his cock. He groaned, shifted his hips a little, then put a hand on her back and pulled her flat against him so her breasts crushed against his chest.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Kiss me.”

As their mouths worked against each other, they began to levitate. Tara opened her eyes just as her back pressed into the ceiling. Franklin purred appreciatively, and then began to thrust into her in earnest. Her nails sliced into his back as his cock hooked her inside in ways that made her whole body quake. He rolled her hair up in his fist and pinned it against the ceiling, and his mouth moved down to her neck. Her own fangs descended as her nose brushed against his skin. The smell of his blood was too inviting. She drove the points home, catching the spray in her mouth. His cry was strangled, but it evolved into a moan as he returned the gesture, his teeth piercing her throat.

It was transcendent stimulation. He cradled her head with his hand, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside her just his blood pulsed into her mouth, thundered through her. All the while, his mouth greedily sucked blood out of her. It went on like that for moments or days, until Tara could feel his blood circulating through her, her blood circulating through him. They came together, perfectly in time, throbbing violent tremors chasing each other through each other’s flesh. Tara felt the contraction rake through her insides, as though the orgasm was in her very veins, threatening to burst her lifeless heart. When it passed, finally, she felt boneless, weightless, as though she had left her flesh. Franklin held her wrapped up in his arms, and together they descended gently to rest on the bed. Tara, atop him now, leaned down to kiss the blood tears from his eyes.

He lay there beneath her, his body limp as though he’d been jointed. He watched her, a small furrow in his brow. She sat back, straddling him, looking down at him in his distracted contemplation. How strange he was, how unpredictable.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, hand running lightly up her flank. She could tell it was a genuine pronouncement, unplanned and unpracticed. Not the cloying possessiveness of his later affectations. More like the way he had been when they had first encountered each other.

Now, gazing down at him in his pensiveness, she remembered it.

_“Here,” he took her hand into his, and she shivered a little. He didn’t say anything, only smiled wickedly around his prodigiously large fangs. He pricked a finger on one of them, and touched it to her swollen, split knuckles. She watched as they healed._

_“That is so…”_

_“Cool,” he supplied._

_“Weird.”_

_“That too.”_

_Tara realized he still hadn’t released her hand. She looked up at him, and his face was unreadable. He looked at her as though trying to see inside her head. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. Tara felt an electric shock of attraction, suddenly. Here was this man, this ghostly shadow, a killer, an immortal and she wanted to disappear inside him._

_Her eyes met his, and she could tell his thoughts were in accord with hers. Even so, it was a relief when he spoke._

_“Do you want to come back to my room?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_He had been careful of her at first. His mouth was gentle, a little cool, but not unpleasantly so. His fingers traced up and down her spine. Then they slipped under her shirt, and lifted it slowly. His kiss deepened in that moment, and Tara almost jumped at the sudden hardness of his fangs as they descended against her tongue._

_“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, eyes travelling over her bared breasts, up to her face. “And so sad.”_

_She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find words. She looked up at him, taking in his dark hair, his wicked smile, and yet not really seeing him at all. He drew her hands to his chest, and she let them wander down, and under the black t-shirt. His skin was chilled, like a person who had spent a few hours in cold weather. Suddenly jerked back into the moment, remembering where she was, and with what, Tara didn’t want to wait any more. She pulled off his shirt and pressed herself against him. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and her nipples hardened. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, and he groaned._

_Then, in a blinding motion that left her dizzy, Tara found herself on the bed. The vampire reached for her jeans, undid the snap, and peeled them off. His fingers found her wet, and she inhaled sharply as they tested her, teased her._

_“So wet,” he murmured. “For me?”_

_She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Every nerve in her body was humming. She wanted him so badly, wanted to let him do anything he wanted to her. Kill her. Fuck her. Both at the same time. She wanted to evacuate. He knelt between her legs._

_“How far do you want me to go?” he queried, stroking her thighs._

_“As far as you want,” she said, her voice cracking. “Just fuck me as hard as you can.”_

_He chuckled, a deep throaty sound. “If I do that, princess, I’ll break you.”_

_She almost said,_ I want you to _._

_He shimmied out of his jeans, freeing his cock. It was long, curved, and as white as the rest of him. When she touched it, it was harder than human. When he guided it into her, she felt herself grip it like a vice. Pleasure welled up through her belly. He growled, and began to thrust into her._

_She could feel him holding back, feel him controlling each stroke. She arched and let out small, voiceless whimpers. He held her effortlessly in place, one hand at the base of her spine, the other cupped around one of her breasts._

_“I’m going to make you come,” he promised. “Until your body gives out.”_

_And he did. The first time, he roared to the ceiling, and she felt the orgasm shuddering through her. Then she asked him to bite her. And he didn’t. He mocked her. And in a swift motion, turned her on her side, and thrust into her again from behind, cock pushing through her still convulsing muscles. She could feel his come already leaking from her, but it seemed that he needed no recovery._

Now he looked up at her, eyes wide, rimmed in blood, as though a sharp word would shatter him. From the look on his face, he was expecting it. Instead, without even thinking about it, she bent down and kissed away his tears. His pain was delicious. 

 


	6. Big Game Hunt

“Go downstairs and get gorgeous,” he’d told her. “More gorgeous,” he’d clarified after she’d skewered him with a look.

“What for?” It wasn’t defiance for once. She was curious.

Franklin reached out and touched her shoulder blade, tracing his finger over its shape. She looked over her shoulder at him, almost coquettish.

“Tonight,” he said. “Is the big game hunt.”

Armed with one of his cards, she’d gone off amiably enough. He made a brief call down to the desk, then repaired to the bathroom for a shower. Hot water sluiced over his long, white body, and unbidden, dark thoughts rose in his mind. Memories he would have done anything to burn out of his brain.

_“Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, Jesu, I knew not.”_

Those faces were dim now, but his other senses remembered. Remembered the sounds of pleading, of crying. The scent of peat smoke and mint leaves and straw. Remembered the fingers that clawed at him. Tiny fingers.

_"Papa!"_

_“Get thee behind me, demon.”_

Franklin pressed his face against the glass, and whispered to himself, trying to quiet his mind. His mind that so often betrayed him. He tried to find that hollow place where he normally lived, the place he’d carved out of himself. The place where he could hide, where the thing that was Franklin could be vapid, vain and wantonly cruel without guilt or regret. Why was it eluding him?

Tara. Of course, Tara. Sobbing over that broken human woman like a little girl who’d torn the dress on her favourite doll. He wondered if she would have to carve her own hole where she could hide from the gods that plagued her. Or, as seemed more likely, she already had plenty of them to hide in. He’d made a few of them himself. One day she’d thank him, he thought bitterly and shut off the water. If she lived.

He shaved with long mastered precision, and worked some product through his hair so that it lost some of its shag, and resolved into loose, glossy ringlets. There was a knock on the door, and he wrapped one of the plush hotel towels around his waist. The bellhop held out a garment bag on a hanger, and Franklin accepted it.

“Add thirty percent to the gratuity,” he said, and the young vampire thanked him, then left. It was Russell’s money, of course, and Russell made a point of tracking him. He very much intended to leave a dead end to his paper trail here in Vegas, but in order to do that he needed hard cash. That said, he was certainly not above spending as much of Russell’s money as possible in the meantime.

The tuxedo, already tailored to his measurements, cost a very pretty penny indeed. It was a Westwood, lined inside with maroon silk, and togged out with pewter buttons which featured a very subtle skull shaped relief. He felt the shape under his thumb, then smiled and started to get dressed.

He did not spare more than a passing glance at his reflection before stepping out into the hallway, but he did enjoy the attention he drew as he made his way through the lobby towards the lounge. Whatever else he was, he had predatory good looks, and even though he relied little on them, he was aware of their power.

Still, his own beauty was a far second to that which he perceived when he entered the lounge. Tara was reclining on one of the many divans, her long braids twisted up into a knot at the back of her head, her body wrapped in a gown of Tyrean purple that reminded him of Grecian art he’d seen. Though this ensemble was deeply decollete and pleasantly taut over her breasts. She was even wearing makeup, just a dusting of black around her eyes. She wore no jewelry save a pair of opal earrings cut in the shape of tear drops. Yellow fire opals, which picked out the amber in her eyes.

“You are a vision,” he murmured.

She didn’t quite smile when she saw him, but rose gracefully. A pair of cream coloured stilettos made her nearly of a height with him, and there was something imperious in her. Something inherited, like her fine cheekbones and almond eyes, as though from Nefertiti’s regal bloodline. He wasn’t nearly old enough to know for sure if they were alike, but the idea charmed him.

He offered his arm, and she took it, her fingertips brushing over the material of his jacket. He had to resist the urge to put his hands on her. If he did that, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from peeling her out of that dress and shagging her blind in front of all the hotel’s guests. He did allow himself the pleasure of stroking her neck with his knuckles.

The limousine took them to one of the newer casinos, one that was Ottomon themed. Though sublimely racist, Club Harem was perfect for their purposes. It was dark and crowded, but also featured an elevated VIP level that ringed the entire perimeter.

It was busy tonight, and the DJ was working a slow beat. The people on the dance floor were swaying, some drunk, some high, all of them sweaty and pulsing with sexual desire. Tara stopped dead in the cloud of human scent, her head turning towards the writhing limbs and bodies. She hesitated, distracted.

“Peace,” Franklin said, touching the small of her back. He drew his knuckles up her spine, gently exerting the tiniest of command on her focus. She shivered, then leaned into him.

“I’m fine,” she said. He nodded, and they made their way to the stairs. The bouncer did not look twice at them as they ascended. The VIP section was set up with a long bar, and a series of very large booths that went up to the ceiling. Only one was occupied. Seated by himself was a Latino man wearing a white crushed leather suit. He was making notes for himself in a little book, and he had the look of a man of deep business. Franklin reckoned he had a few murders under his belt. He felt a fleeting respect- here was another man of fortune, a man who played his kind of game.

He looked to his lady. “What do you think?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think that’s a V dealer, and you’re going to try and pimp me out to him.”

“Pretend. I’m going to pretend.”

She clicked her tongue. “No. I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “What should I know?”

Franklin considered. “He probably has anti-glamour contacts. It’s a new technology, but most V dealers have them. You’ll have to rely on other means to charm him.”

She glanced back at him. “If I go with him, you’ll be able to feel me? You’ll be able to follow?”

He nodded. He did not say, take care, or be wary. He wanted to see how she carried it.

“Wait at the bar.”

Franklin gave her a little half bow, and went to go perch on a stool. He flagged the bartender down and ordered a TruBlood, his ears tuned to the booth at the end of the row.

Tara, not a subtle soul, opened negotiations. “You look lonely.”

“Alone is not lonely,” said the man. He had a low, slow voice, with just a hint of accent. “May I help you?”

“Might be you can. It depends on you. You’re a businessman, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. I should warn you that I do not discuss my business affairs in public with strange vampires.”

Tara seemed to consider her words. “If I had some business for you, where could we discuss it?”

He looked at her, and even at a distance, Franklin could sense his covetousness. He bristled a little, but fought the feeling down. He had to trust his baby vampire. He listened.

“If a transaction is to be made, I have a suite in this establishment.”

“My name is Tara,” she said, and offered her hand knuckles first in a perfect imitation of courtier.

“Santino.” His lips lingered a little too long on her skin. His dark eyes moved to Franklin, and he smiled slightly. “Your friend is not happy that you are speaking to me.”

“He’s a nuisance,” she said, and there was a careless contempt in her voice. “But he’s profitable.”

“Ah,” said Santino. “He is your progeny?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And...is he quite young?” Santino was now looking at him much the way a horse breeder investigates a yearling. Franklin did not like it, but he endured. He was going to punish Tara for this, he decided.

“Less than a year,” Tara said, adding a long-suffering sigh, as though she was a world-weary vampire of advanced age.

“I see,” the dealer said, a flat note of disinterest in his voice. “I should tell you, Tara, my clients pay handsomely for my product. A vinter peddles wine, not grape juice.”

Tara looked thoughtfully at Franklin. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. They were just going to have to wing it. She turned back to the dealer.

“Say I agree. Will you do business with us?”

Santino’s eyes flicked over to Franklin, then back to Tara. “I will do business with you. Your...creature...must remain here.”

She gave Franklin a long, hard stare, then smiled at Santino. “Fair enough.”

Franklin waited until they were in the lobby before he followed. He watched the elevator floor number until it stopped at 17, then cast around for the entrance to the stairs. They were mercifully empty, and he sprinted up to the 17th floor in a blur of speed. Once on the landing, he remained by the door, listening. He could hear Santino’s key card beep, and the turning of the door handle.

“Please come in.”

When they were just inside, Franklin unleashed the force of his will on Tara, articulating as much as he could a single thought.

_Kill him._

There was a strangled cry- too soft for mortal ears, but Franklin heard it. He crossed the hallway to where the door of the suite was still ajar. Tara’s mouth was latched to the V dealer’s neck, her fangs buried into the soft skin just under the jaw. Franklin hissed in annoyance as Santino struggled and swore in Spanish.

“Kill him,” Franklin ordered. “I can’t enter until he’s dead.”

Tara made a little whine of protest, shaking the man in her teeth like a cat with a rat.

Franklin rolled his eyes and huffed. “As your maker I command you.”

Tara grumbled, and snapped Santino’s neck. She released him, and he fell into a heap at her feet. Something spilled out of his inside jacket, something bright and shiny. It was a long fine silver chain.

Tara looked at it apprehensively, her mouth ringed with the man’s blood. “He was going to…but he seemed so nice.”

“First impressions aren’t everything.” Franklin said as he kicked the chain away. “You should know that by now. Now help me look for the safe.”

They found it quickly. It was brushed with silver, and Franklin had to bite down on his lip as he went to rip open the door. The searing pain blistered his fingertips, but it faded after a moment. Tara bent to look inside, and let out a low whistle.

“Check the bedroom for a bag,” he instructed. She returned with a gym bag that had the name of the hotel emblazoned on it. Franklin raked the cash into it, estimating nearly a million American dollars.

Tara watched with wide eyed wonder. “Holy mother of god.”

“Come on, come on,” Franklin urged. He opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and ushered Tara outside.

“Oh no,” she said, looking at the far away pavement seventeen storeys below. “This is too high. This is way too high.”

Franklin put an arm around her and she pressed his face into his chest. He concentrated his will, and they rose into the air. She clung to him in a death grip and whimpered rhythmically, until they touched down in front of the Hotel Carmilla.

 

\---

Tara looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, trying to tell if she’d spilled any of Santino’s blood on her Vera Wang dress. It appeared to have survived, but before she could ease out of it, Franklin appeared in the mirror over her shoulder. He’d stripped down to shirt sleeves, and he looked amused.

“What?” Tara demanded. She was just reaching to wipe the last traces of blood from her face.

“Stop,” he said, putting up his hand. “Stay just like that”

Puzzled, she looked at him for an explanation. He said nothing, but made his way towards her, still holding her gaze in the mirror. He stopped just short, and reached around, using his fingertip to catch the blood from the corner of her mouth. He held them to her lips. She watched him as she bent to suck it off, taking his index finger entirely in her mouth before releasing it.

“You were brilliant tonight,” he said, letting his fingers glide along her arm.

Tara let out a breath. “I was scared out of my mind.”

He leaned against her, and moved her hair so he could kiss the back of her neck. “I’m proud of you.”

Tara looked at herself in the mirror, her makeup a little worse for wear, but she had a presence and a power she had not had a few short days ago. His words seemed to slip inside her, and warm her. She couldn’t remember when someone had taken pride in her, and she couldn’t help it. She was pleased.

She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Ever fuck in a pile of cash?”

His dark little chuckle crawled over her skin. “I wasn’t planning on going that far.”

His knee nudged between her legs, moving them apart. Suddenly she could feel his erection against the curve of her ass, and hardness seemed to trigger something inside her. With one hand he caught the hem of her dress, and pulled it up over her hips. Her panties, a scrap of lace, he ripped effortlessly aside.

Tara couldn’t stop a moan escaping her as he pushed into her, his cock sinking in to the hilt. He gasped softly, his hands sliding down her arms to where her hands rested on the marble. He circled her wrists with his hands, pinning them where they were.

“Look,” he said roughly, as he moved inside her in slow, deep strokes. “Look at us.”

Tara looked. Her face had the empty quality of pleasure. Her lips were parted, her chin dropped down, her eyes clouded. Franklin behind her, fucking her in that way he had that made her feel like his cock filled everything below her heart. His eyes were intent, his expression pure predator. His fangs flicked down, and he kissed the place where her neck and shoulder joined.

“I want to taste you,” he rasped.

Tara watched herself, almost fascinated by her own acquiescence. Her own submission. She turned her head and watched as the vampire’s teeth went into her neck. Franklin purred against her skin, the sharp pain of it accenting the wet, liquid pleasure of his cock inside her. He let go of her wrists and slid his hands back up her arms. Working deftly, he pulled the straps off her shoulders, and her breasts spilled out. He cupped them in his palms and withdrew his fangs from her neck.

“Come for me, darling,” he said softly, eyes on her, his mouth and teeth red with her blood. Tara shuddered as his influence, combined with the sustained pressure from his thrusts worked on her. Climax broke over her like a crashing wave. She screamed. She moaned his name. She gave herself over to it. Looking the mirror, she saw his lips drawn back, his fangs extended, the beast inside him revealed. He was deadly, and dangerous. He moved inside her.

She came again, arched back, her legs going a little weak as the tightness wrenched inside her. Franklin held her up easily, his hips pressed to her ass as he availed himself of her twisting, contracting insides. She felt his cock twitch, felt him spill inside of her. His roar vibrated against her skin.

He did not release her, but instead bore her down to the marble floor. In his frenzy he tore the dress off her body and drove his cock so hard into her she could feel her pelvis bending. Tara cried out, her nails clawing inch deep fissures into his back. He took her gaze and held it, his cock relentless inside her. His pupils were wide voids, his mouth and fangs bloody from his feasting. Tara tightened her legs around him and squeezed inside, her muscles wrapping him up with pressure.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “Yes.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes locked on hers even as his hips bucked and frissons chased themselves up and down his spine. He twitched, his body going limp across hers.

He sighed in her ear, and she felt his words as much as heard them.

“That will never stop being good.”

“Never is a long time,” she said, though she herself was beginning to realize that he wasn’t a habit she was going to be able to break easily, if at all.

“I’ve been around a long time,” he said quietly. “I’ve had it all, Tara. You’re something else entirely.”

“How long?” Tara suddenly realized she had never asked the question.

Franklin stared at her, and she could feel something inside him tense. He lifted himself off her, and started strip off the remains of his clothes, then went over to the jacuzzi and turned on the tap.

“Long,” he said, unhelpfully. Tara felt the shift of his mood, his ardour fading a little. She didn’t like that feeling- she associated it with telephone calls never returned. She sighed. However old he was, his ego was still as fragile as ever. She wondered about herself, if she wasn’t much better. His behaviour towards her had been monstrous, but here she was, annoyed by his sudden reticence.

She kicked off her shoes, and slid down into the water. The heat soaked into her skin, warming her right through to her bones. After a moment, Franklin joined her, making a tiny noise of pleasure as the water touched his pale skin.

“I want to know,” Tara said abruptly.

“I’m trying to figure out why,” he replied, glib and playful. It seemed forced.

“Maybe I’m trying to get to know you better.”

“Are you really?” his gaze had hardened. “As you’ve said, you hate me.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“If you get to know me more you’ll just hate me more.” Yes, he was definitely sulking

“Ain’t possible,” she replied. She wondered now if it was entirely true. She hated what he’d done to her, hated that she enjoyed what he did to her. Hated his control over her. Hated how good he felt. It was starting to dawn on her that those feelings were not incompatible with...whatever it was she felt for him now.

He lay back against the jets and sighed. “Four hundred and sixty-seven.”

“Jesus.”

He cocked a brow.

“You just seem…” she was fishing for the right word, and landed one. “Immature for your age.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who wanted to know.”

“Your maker...you never knew anything? Heard anything?”

She could tell by his expression she was on thin ice. That, and the sudden wave of agitation that rolled through her.

“No,” he said shortly. “Not once in over four centuries. And before you ask, no, I have never felt any kind of connection or summons, or any hint of presence.”

“Maybe they’re dead,” Tara observed. “Could you prevent me from feeling you?”

Franklin thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I think it would take more discipline than I have.”

“Maybe you’re just lazy.”

He splashed water in her face, and she spluttered. He grinned like a naughty school boy, and then did it again.

“Stop it!” She put her hands up to ward him off. “Okay, jeeze. How the hell am I supposed to know any of this if you never mention it?”

“Because there are things…” he looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. “There are things that a maker is supposed to do. Things they are supposed to anticipate. A new vampire left alone rarely survives. If they do, there’s...consequences.”

It was a sobering thought. Tara imagined herself as she was when she had first come out of the ground. Disoriented and in pain. Starving. Franklin’s presence, loathsome though it had felt, had anchored her, directed her. Without him, she might have gone back to Merlotte’s, and slaughtered everyone she had ever known or cared about. She realized just how terrible, how cruel it would be, to be abandoned that way. Not only for herself, but for any unfortunate human within reach. Sam. Sookie. Jason. Lafayette and Arlene. Terry. Big John. Even Andy. Even Jane Bodehouse or Maxine Fortenberry. True, she hadn’t troubled herself about them since she’d been turned, but the thought of any one of the dead by her hand was unbearable.

She looked back to Franklin, who was not looking at her. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, watching the roiling water. She tried to picture him in the sixteenth century, couldn’t. He was only Franklin to her, her torment, her tonic, the maker she never wanted, the man whose madness had left scars on her. She tried to imagine if he left her tonight. It was almost a physical pain, deeper than just longing or loneliness. She tried to imagine feeling it for four centuries.

“Franklin,” she said, very very softly. His eyes flicked up to her, his handsome, angular face an impassive mask. He started slightly when she reached out to touch his hand, but then his fingers opened and threaded through hers. She flowed into his arms, and he held her against him.

“It’ll be morning soon,” he said. She nodded. She was already drifting.

“I’m falling asleep,” she mumbled against his neck. He slipped one arm under her legs, and lifted her out of the water as though she weighed nothing at all. Where it found no purchase, the water sloughed off her. Where it clinged, Franklin kissed it away. He was still kissing her when darkness covered her mind.


	7. Consequences

_He struggled out of the ground, filthy with earth and tangled up in a faded leather surcoat. He ripped it away from himself, his blue eyes wide with fear and wonder. He shook the dirt out of his black curls, and looked around the forest for any sign of life, but there was no one. He remembered...hands. Black hands- no, gloved hands. Teeth, he’d never seen the like. A beast, but no, a beast that stood upright. Then, his neck- Christ, it was going to kill him. He clapped a hand to the wound, but there was nothing there. It was still sticky, but there was no wound._

_A sharp searing in his guts, a knife edge of hunger. Where had the fiend gone? Why was he weeping, crying like a child for its mothers? He searched and searched, maddened by the animal noises- the step of a deer, the shuffling of a rabbit. But no human sound. No sign of the one who had brought him here._

_Blood. He remembered drinking it. Some dark, unclean rite. He remembered clawing at the arm, crying when it was withdrawn. The hooded figure said something in a language he could not speak, and forced him back. Then darkness dropping over him like a great black curtain._

_Now he was hungry. So hungry that pain suffused his very skin. The rustle of leaves, the distant sound of...was that laughter? The clink of tankards? How was it possible? He had to be miles away. But before he could stop himself, he was drawn towards the sound, so quickly he could not perceive his own footfalls. In an instant, he was before the palisade gate, which was manned by a familiar figure. Patrick Mosley, or as they all called him “Broad Pat”, famous for his skill as a wrestler. He was a powerful young man, the blacksmith’s boy. His friend._

_“Sir Frankeleyn!” he called, raising his torch. He came down the incline, his face all full of worry. “Sir, we thought to see you this morning, we feared you had fallen under attack.”_

_I did, Frankeleyn thought to himself. My men, slaughtered. Gloved hands breaking my steel gorget off like it was dry clay._

_“God above, you’re wounded,” Pat said once he was close. He stuck the stick end of the torch into the ground and went to attend his master. Frankeleyn wondered what he must look like. Bloody face, blood caking his throat. Covered in dirt from head to foot. But then, a most delectable scent climbed up through his nostrils, and floated into his head. All consuming._

_Pat’s throat, it was pulsing with blood. He could see it, could see the veins throbbing, could smell the meaty, salty fluid that rushed just under the skin. Then the teeth, his teeth, pressing into his lip. They’d slipped down from some recess in his skull, and the razor points cut into the inside of his mouth._

_Pat saw them too. His eyes widened. “Christ above!”_

_It was too late. Frankeleyn had him by the throat, shaking him like a rat dog. He breathed in the blood like a man dying of thirst, while the limbs of his friend and servant stiffened and twitched. He drank and drank until there was nothing left. The thing that had been Pat crumpled, mighty no longer._

_Frankeleyn staggered, a shuddering palpitating sensation of pleasure throbbing through his veins. He wanted more. He could smell it, like waves of steam wafting over the palisade wall. He swarmed up the gate before he could stop himself, and followed the sounds of laughter, the scent of ale and cooking grouse._

_The massacre took no time at all. Rivers of blood, more than he could drink, streamed under the ale house door. They all lay dead or dying, ripped open by his fangs, or his hands. Mouse, Kay and Sir Peter. The Hales. His friends. His brothers. They hadn’t fought, couldn’t fight, could not countenance death in the form of their commander, their beloved son of the Mott. Frankeleyn wept as he did it, weeping for the things he did, and still he could not stop. Still, there was that smell, that maddening smell of living blood._

_The screams had roused the village, but he had killed all of the fighting men. They wouldn’t have made any difference. His own door was barred, but a servant let him inside, apparently unaware that he was the cause of all the bloodshed. He broke his body as he drank, then cast around, looking for her, searching for her to please, please shake him awake, end this nightmare._

_She was in the dining hall, shielding the boys. Thomas and James, were twins. Both of them fair like their mother. At the sight of their father, they cried. Mary pushed them, told them to flee. They went as fast as their little legs could go. His eyes followed them, attuned to the sound of their tiny, fluttering hearts. But it was Mary, his Mary, her long golden hair, her shining white face, that drew him now._

_“Help me,” he whispered, moving towards her. “Mary.”_

_She dropped to her knees, her hands clutched around her rosary. As she prayed- for his soul or hers?-her hands clenched so tightly around the beads that blood flowed from her palm. He was there before he could stop himself, and he took up her hand, and kissed the blood. She tried to wrench it away, but his grip was unmovable._

_“Who are you, demon?” she whispered. “What have you done with my husband?”_

_“Mary-”_

_“No. You speak with his voice, but you are not he.”_

_“I am Frankeleyn. Some curse is laid upon me.”_

_She spat in his face. “Liar.”_

_“Please help me,” he begged. “Please.”_

_She pressed the rosary against his face. The silver burned like acid, and he screamed. He slapped it out of her hand, jerked back her beautiful blonde head and sank his teeth into her throat. Blood blossomed into his mouth, his wife’s blood, sweet with her anguish, her beating heart’s fear, her heart’s love, her heart’s breaking. He tried to stop, tried, but his body would not obey._

Oh, my love.

_Her body was so small. He had been able to circle her waist with one arm. She had borne him twins with that tiny frame, in defiance of his fears. Now she looked at him with her neck bent back and eyes rolled. He dropped her, stepped away, his humanity swamped, drowning in blood. A tiny part of him screamed no, no, no, but it was so tiny. It was the voice of a drowning man in the distance. The beast heard the tender weeping voices from the cellar._

Tara shot out of bed, sitting straight up, clutching at her chest. It felt like a hand squeezing her heart. The vision lingered, and she cried out, blood tears blurring her eyes. It was still day- she could feel the leaden pull of sleep- but the terror was so palpable she wondered if she would ever sleep again. The young woman. The boys. Pale blue eyed boys. Moment by moment, she felt the pressure on her heart release. She looked over at Franklin, who was laid out like a corpse, but twitching and whimpering in a very un-corpselike way. The nightmare still had him.

She reached over and seized his shoulders, shaking roughly enough to give a human whiplash. His eyes snapped open. He was on her in an instant, his fangs descended, his hand closing around her throat. His lip curled, and he hissed.

_Your heart is beating so fast. I want to feel it stop._

But her heart did not beat.

“Franklin,” she choked out. His grip was iron, and she couldn’t break it. His eyes were blind to her. The dream was inside him still. She felt the anguish inside him, and pushed back against it. They shared blood, and it was more powerful than even his deepest nightmare. She searched for what what was Tara, sunlit days on the Stackhouse lawn, the dark nights driving her mother home from the hospital, the empty beds, daddy’s gun, the first time she smoked a joint with Lafayette. Then the memory, her knuckles splitting on a tobacco stained jaw, the vampire holding him for her like a boxing coach steadying a heavy bag.

_Yes, hit him. Hit him back. Hurt him. Make him pay._

His eyes cleared. He released her throat, and breathed as though winded. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He dissolved, blood tears coming fast now. He tried to move back, but she caught him, wrapping her arms around him. He wept steadily into her breasts for ten minutes, while she stroked his hair. In that time, she started to feel crunchy, like someone with a mild hangover. Tiny drips of blood came from her ears and nose, and she looked down and saw he was in the same state.

  
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He looked up at her, his face awash in blood.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, not believing she was saying it, but believing what she was saying all the same.

“It was,” he said, his blood rimmed eyes staring blankly. “It was my fault.”

She gave him a little shake. “No. What you did to me, stalking me, putting your mind-rape on me, that was your fault. You ain’t sorry about that, are you?”

He said nothing, only looked through her.

She hooked her fingers under his chin and forced him to look her in the eye. “If you had let me crawl out the ground and go tearing off to Bon Temps, if you had let me do that, would that be my fault?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

She laid her hand over his. “My life was fucked up before you showed up, but I ain’t never been as unlucky as that. Because you may be terrible, you may be a sadistic, evil son of a bitch, but you didn’t do that to me. You didn’t leave me like that.”

“No,” he said, and suddenly his arms were tight around her. “Never. I won’t. Not like that.”

She stroked his hair, and let her mouth rest on his forehead. “I know.”

“Even if we’re apart for a hundred years, two hundred years, you’ll always be able to find me again.”

His words whispered through her skin, under her ribs. They were comforting, and they were terrifying because they were comforting.

_God help me, he’s grown on me._

She fell back to sleep with him cuddled around her, head resting on her chest. They did not dream.


	8. Living History

“London,” she had said, when he’d put the question to her. It had to be somewhere out of the country, somewhere they could hide while things calmed in the US. There was no guarantee that the death of the V dealer would be traced to him- such a man had many enemies. But it was not worth the risk. London would not have been his first choice, but his darling wanted it, so he would go. They could always travel to the continent from there. Besides, this time of year, the city was always rife with tourists. And tourists made excellent hunting.

The flight landed just a little after dark. They processed through customs, which was a chore. British vampires were also British citizens, so he’d had to produce his actual passport. For Tara, he’d merely explained that she was new and told the agent he’d better mind his own damn business if he wanted to keep his eyeballs. The agent, of course, immediately forgot this, but he looked anxiously around him as they left the kiosk.

“That was mean,” Tara said.

“Tosser,” Franklin replied, putting his Englishness back on like a worn but comfortable coat. He liked America, where his natural exoticism tended to fade into the crazy quilt of types, but here, back in the empire, he felt more English than anywhere else. 467 years old, and he was still the subject of a queen whose ancestors and predecessors he’d served. Ah, tradition. But Tara was evidently fascinated by her surroundings. As though flocks of businessmen did not rush at such a clip to catch the train in her own country. Then he reminded himself that she was of rural stock, that Las Vegas was the biggest city she had ever seen in her short life.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. They’d had a TruBlood in the travel suite (Franklin had sprung, they’d earned it after all) but he could feel the hunger tugging at his insides. He offered his arm, and she took it absently.

They lit Buckingham palace up at night. Much to his delight, Tara declared it “kind of ugly” and turned instead to watch the crowd. Throngs of tourists milled about, and Franklin would show her how to make the most of it.

“Find the right ones. Do you know how?”

“They need to be from far away,” she said decidedly. “But...they can’t just be here for a few days.”

“So no guided tours. No short itineraries.”

Tara looked at him as she tapped her lower lip, a habit she had when she was thinking. “Tell me.”

Franklin turned her attention to the pair he had spied. They were young, ostentatiously wealthy in their casual walking clothes, and he easily identified Russian as the language of their argument.

“Why them?” Tara asked.

Franklin bent down and kissed her ear. “They’ve got money. They have a rental somewhere in the city. They will have paid in advance for it.”

Tara smiled as it dawned on her. “Ain’t nobody waiting on them.”

Ah, yes. She was coming along nicely.

They’d talked themselves easily into the townhouse. It was in a part of town where the neighbours delicately ignored each other, and no one would have cause to notice the lack of front door foot traffic for a week or so.

The first one they took together. Little girlfriend with her fake tits and bleached smile. Anoushka. She had squealed at first, then gasped, and finally was reduced to hyperventilating as they sank fangs into her neck, one to a side. Franklin cradled Tara’s head as she guzzled down the woman’s blood faster than he could keep up. She was dried and dead within minutes.

The man, a powerfully built Cossack named Ivan, was all for him.

“You look parched,” Tara had said. How generous she was. And how gorgeous with red smeared across her face, and over her breasts.

Ivan was more than enough of a meal for him. He left him to die on the carpet, his blood pulsing out of the wounds torn in his neck. He tried to cry out, but then Franklin reached down and tore open his voice box, and he quieted.

Tara kissed him, and he opened his mouth for her, letting her taste the Russian’s thick, citrusy blood. He wondered, as his tongue took a familiar circuit of her mouth, when she had turned on to him. Not just him, but to the beautiful nihilism that had carried him through so many centuries. He was no mainstreamer, and no Bill Compton to force his progeny to adhere to the silly dogma of the VLA, or the authority. Unbidden, he thought of Jessica, of the severed head. Then of his own Tara, and the head she’d twisted off that unfortunate prostitute in Longview. Well, maybe it was a baby vampire thing. At least Tara had done the thing herself.

She pulled back from him and smiled a devious smile. Then she dropped down on to her knees, and gazed up at him, while he waited, mouth watering in anticipation. She turned her smooth brown cheek and nuzzled it against the front of his jeans. He was hard in an instant, his cock suffused with the blood he’d recently divested from its owner.

“Tara,” he said, the word harsh as it ripped up from inside him. She didn’t waste time teasing, but opened his fly and drew him out. He gasped, a short, strangled gasp as she took him into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out, and her eyes still watching him. He watched back, shuddering as she took his length into her throat. Without the need to breathe, she could hold him that way indefinitely while the pleasure of it twisted in his belly. He slid a hand through his hair and worked his cock slowly in and out of her mouth. She moved with him, her tongue moving up to tease the head, dipping into his urethra in such a way that made his balls jerk, and before he could stop himself, he was fucking her throat in quick, hard strokes. When he pulled back into her mouth to come, she sealed her lips over the head and sucked it out so hard his knees almost buckled.

“Oh my god, fuck, Tara, you...so...good…”

Then she released him, and he did fall right on his knees, flopping back into the blood soaked carpet, writhing a little with the lingering pleasure of it. She crawled over top of him, and let out a yelp as he seized her by the thighs, placing his face directly between them so she was straddling his head. He ripped away her jeans and plunged his tongue into her cunt as far as it could reach. She let out a little “oh”, her back arching as he worked on her. He slid his fingers into her, two and then three, as his tongue swirled around her clit. When she started to come, he slowed, held her on the brink. She whined in protest and then groaned as he slipped his fangs slowly, and carefully into the soft wet flesh. She came, her moan mingled with a sob of pain, of pleasure, then a gasp as he rolled her off him, on to her stomach into the puddle of Ivan gore. Her angry little Tara whimper warmed him through as he slid his cock into her.

To see her want it, to watch himself as he pistoned in and out of her, it delighted him. Oh, the things he was going to do to her. So many nights.

“You’re so tight,” he informed her, his hand sliding up to the back of her neck. “When I’m fucking you this way a hundred years from now, it will still feel this good.”

She squirmed under him, as his cock pounded against her g spot. He could feel her wetness flooding around him. He put his hand around her throat and pulled her back so her torso was raised off the carpet, and buried his face in her hair. Her breasts, slick with blood, bounced as he laid into her. When she came it was wet, blood and fluid warm from their feasting. When she came it was for him. His name sounded best when in it was on her lips, best when she was begging for it. He wrapped his arms around her as he climaxed, his whole body describing a bent bow. When the tension broke, he went limp across her, and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction against her skin.

It was a short afterglow before she shoved him unceremoniously off her, and stood up. “I need a shower.”

Franklin got up and padded after her, peeling off his sticky black shirt. He had a dozen more like it stashed away in a flat down by the river, but he always felt a little mournful each time he lost one. Tara, on the other hand, had a very limited wardrobe and had the good sense to remove her good suede jacket and snake skin boots at the door.

  
She handed him a bottle of body wash and leaned into his hands as he soaped the blood off of her lithe brown body. It ran off her in creamy pink rivers and he kissed her skin. Dark chocolate. His Tara.

“You’re better at this than I thought you would be,” he said, letting his hands explore her, hefting the slight heaviness of her breasts in his palms.

“Better at what?”

“Being a vampire.” He considered for a moment. “Killing. Most 21st century vampires don’t take to it.”

“Everyone’s gotta die sometime,” she twanged, though he suspected she was toughening for his benefit.

“We don’t have to kill,” he reasoned. “It isn’t strictly necessary.”

“I think I’ve been wanting to,” she said, suddenly sober. “I’ve been wanting to kill someone for a long time. I know it’s wrong. I know I couldn’t...I couldn’t do it to just anyone.”

“What about them?” Franklin nodded towards the sitting room where the bodies lay.

“I ain’t sure. I just felt like…” she paused, water running down over her knit brows. “I don’t know.”

“Contempt,” Franklin said. “Spitefulness and luxury make a bitter combination. Tell me, Tara, how often do you meet someone you immediately dislike, and later change your mind about them?”

She thought about that. “Happens the other way lots of times. But I usually trust my first instinct. How can you ever be sure?”

“I don’t know. But then, I learned to kill at the age of twelve. Old vampires, we’ve learned caution. Some are indiscriminate in their choice of victim, some need a pretext or a justification, but if any vampire tells you they don’t shuffle the coil off the occasional mortal, they’re lying.”

She reached for the water and shut it off. “But you said we don’t always have to kill.”

“No.” He smiled. “But it’s more fun.”

In the interest of good habits, Franklin took the time to show her how best to dispose of the bodies. In pieces, in different places, mostly in skips and dumpsters near restaurants. Places where human parts were unlikely to be distinguished from butchered animal caracasses. Tedious, but necessary. Then they continued down to the flat- a small affair with one light tight bedroom, and some closet space. He had a bathroom but no kitchenette, and a small balcony that looked over the Themes.

“I don’t come here often,” he said as he pulled the sheets off his furniture. Most of it was trusty black leather, with a throw pillow here and there. He hadn’t really done much entertaining here, either. But now that Tara’s long, sleek form was adorning his sofa, he thought perhaps it might be worth sprucing the place up a little. He was accustomed to living on the road, and hadn’t given much thought to the idea of a home base, but he thought he might actually like to stay here a little while. Get to know his baby vampire a little better. There were so many things he still didn’t know about her.

“Do you miss him?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself.

Tara’s expression was one of confusion. “What?”

“Benedict Tally.”

Her face clouded with pain. “Eggs? How did you…?”

“I asked around Bon Temp, remember. It was still fresh news. Still a fresh wound for you.”

Tara sat up, and perched her elbows on her knees as she hunched. “I ain’t thought about him since...well, since this all happened. I think...I miss what I could have had with him. I never felt like that about anyone before. Ain’t nobody ever felt that way about me. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to die like that. He was a good man.”

Franklin considered. “You aren’t like me.”

“Why do you say that?” there was a touch of red at the corner of her eyes, but the tears stayed.

 _God knows she had shed enough of them,_ he thought.

“Because you still have human sympathy, and when someone is sympathetic to you, you won’t want to hurt them.”

He could tell she was thinking of the whore she’d killed in Longview. “I guess.”

Franklin sat down across from her, resisting the urge to reach out to her. “I would have done things differently if...I should have done things differently.”

“Why?” she asked, and suddenly she was harsh again. “Do you think you could make me love you if you had killed me differently?”

He gave a helpless shrug. “I meant that I would have...that first night, you were in such despair.”

“You would have made me a vampire against my will then?”

He moved to sit by her. She did not shrink or pull away, merely fixed him with a skeptical expression.

“Would you go back?” he asked seriously. “If you could? Would you rather be human?”

She thought for a moment. “The only point in asking that question at all is so you can hear an answer that pleases you. It ain’t possible to go back, so why ask at all?”

He lifted a strand of her hair out of her face. “To hear an answer that pleases me.”

“You really are such a goddamn child.”

“Tell me you don’t like it.”

Her eyes moved over him. “You know I do. That’s not what you want to hear.”

He pursed his lips. “You’re not...indifferent to me, Tara?”

She weighed him with her dark, sharp eyes. “You ain’t acting the way you were at Russell’s house. It’s hard to know what it is with you. If it’s blood, or if it’s you being sweet on me because you’re in love with the idea of it.”

“It is different,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it. I was playing the fool before, but that was just a bad habit. After you rose...it’s different.”

“I think,” Tara reflected. “You ain’t been in real love or had any true regard for someone for so long that the best you can do is an impression of it.”

He drew back as though she had slapped him. Not because he was affronted, but because she, this baby, this infant, had cut through four centuries of narcissism and delusion to the heart of his deficiency.

“I _can_ feel more than the destruction of life, Tara,” he said finally.

She arched a brow. “Can you? Or do you just want someone to feel it with?”

“Not just anyone,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “The fucking is good, the killing is good, but I also just like you, Tara. I like the sound of your voice. You make me laugh. I like that you aren’t afraid of me.”

“You tried to make me afraid of you,” she pointed out dryly. “You tried hard.”

Franklin sighed. “So I had some unrealistic ideas. I’ve overcome.”

Her smile was almost not there. “We’ll see.”

His smile wasn’t there at all, but he could feel a sudden hope breathe through him. She had not said no, or don’t bother, or there’s no chance.

\---

Tara looked at the shining breast plate behind the glass, her eyes moving over the contours of the metal. It had been polished to a shine, and had hardly a mark on it to suggest it the person who had worn it had ever been in battle. Here, in the Tower’s collection, it looked like a prop.

“I bought it after I became a vampire,” Franklin said, eyeing the suit of armour. “More for show than anything. Most battles happen during the day, and there wasn’t a soldier alive that could touch me.”

“But all your scars,” Tara asked, thinking of the blows of the morningstar, the cuts from the swords.

“When I was alive, my armour was cheap,” he said with a shrug. “My people were landed, but plate is expensive.”

“I wish I could see what it was like back then,” Tara said.

He laughed. “You don’t. It was misery. People were filthy, plague ridden sacks of flesh looking for any excuse to collapse and die.”

“But…” she couldn’t believe how childish she felt. “Knights! And...jousting. And princesses.”

“Christ,” Franklin said, and then laughed. “Do you really want to know?”

Tara nodded, slipping her arm through his. “I do.”

Franklin laid his hand over hers, and they walked down the corridor. “There is a way. At least, I’ve heard of there being a way. I never had the opportunity to try it. You’re the only vampire I’ve made.”

“A way to what?”

“To share memories, using the blood.”

Tara was intrigued. “Oh. How?”

“You drink from me. I drink from you. I focus my will and open my mind to you.”

“Mmm,” she said, and her eyes lingered over the group of tourists. They were mostly young couples and families, and while she was tempted by the smell of their blood, they were harmless. In fact, she felt a little of their awe, and reflected that she was a tourist here, too. She didn’t want to hunt them. They were funny.

“Did you come here?” she asked abruptly, turning to her maker. “Before?”

“Twice,” Franklin said. “To witness at executions.”

Tara shivered a little. She wondered, given her own experience at beheading, that the idea of an execution bothered her. There was something about it as a procedure that still gave her the creeps. Franklin laughed softly, and pressed his lips to her temple.

“Okay,” she said resolutely. “I want to try.”

“Not here,” he said unnecessarily.

“Duh, Franklin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Duh, Tara.”

The flat was a short ride away, so they took the tube. Tara felt Franklin’s eyes on her as she watched the passengers, most of them hollow eyed city types coming home from a long day’s ride at their desks. None of them looked like they’d make a particularly good meal. Tara usually felt contempt for these office types, but now she just felt pity. Franklin’s hand moved to rest on her thigh, and she felt a tingling in her belly. It still amazed her how easily he could do that, turn her on with a glance or a touch. Sometimes, she thought it was the power of his blood, but more often she realized it was just him. She had something for him, something bad. He knew it, and he liked her to know that he knew it. The creep.

When they got in, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from giving him what he wanted, because she wanted it too. Tonight it was languid. He didn’t fuck her with ravenous abandon. He insinuated himself into her, his cock moving through her in long, slow strokes. He held her gathered to him, and she stared into his pale eyes. She felt her fangs descend, shuddered with pleasure as he dipped his head down and ran his tongue over them. When he lifted her head to his neck, it was almost a tender gesture. His skin gave under her teeth, and the thick dark blood that was by now familiar nectar burst into her mouth. She hissed against his skin as his fangs went into her own neck. Large fangs, a hardness in her flesh like the hardness of his cock inside her. All familiar now, but a familiar pleasure that would never give up its novelty. Just as hot showers, and brushing her hair would never stop being enjoyable. Only better. Because her mind, her thoughts, were wonderfully arrested by him and his wicked work. Tara craved the quiet, the peace, the blissful emptiness.

But now, with her maker’s blood circulating through her, her blood doing the same inside him, she was suddenly visited by a memory that was not her own.

_The night was wind tossed. The rain spat rather than poured, and it made tapping music as it pelted his breast plate. It was just after dusk, though Sir Frankeleyn had taken advantage of the overcast evening and had risen a little earlier than was his custom. Here in the Tower there was some shelter, but not for the man who was so recently parted with his head. A young man, a Frenchman, whose name Frankeleyn couldn’t remember. His body, still skinny with youth, was draped over the block, while his head stared dumbly up, resting at a jaunty angle in the wet grass._

_“Where did you find him?” came a sudden voice. Not a voice Frankeleyn recognized, but he had a guess as to its owner. Francis Walsingham was of middling size, and his broad black doublet was spare, but there was something innately powerful about him. It was a feat for a mortal to impress him thus, Frankeleyn thought. But then, he was still a young man, well within his human lifetime._

_“Calais,” he said, casting an eye back to the boy. “Boasting in his cups of his mission to rid Christendom of the heretic queen.”_

_Walsingham smoothed the sable of his lapels, which were sleek from rainwater. “You do not claim to have overtaken him in combat? That is usually the tale.”_

_Frankeleyn laughed at the idea of the contest. “No, my lord.”_

_“Well and good,” said Walsingham. “You are a listener, Sir Frankeleyn. It is listeners the queen needs, not gallant knight errants.”_

_“If I can serve,” Frankeleyn murmured, surprised at his own sincerity. Here he was, ten years a vampire, and yet his blood boiled at the thought of Gloriana overthrown for some foreign papist puppet._

_“You can,” Walsingham said. “Creatures such as yourself are well adapted in matters such as these.”_

_Frankeleyn registered very little surprise, but still put the question to his new master. “Creatures such as I?”_

_Walsingham was steady. “You would not be the first to enter my employ, provided I may count on your discretion and your…”_

_“Decorum?” Frankeleyn suggested. “Does my lord think to present me at court?”_

_Walsingham’s mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile. “It pleases the queen to recognize her protectors. It provides her some peace of mind.”_

_Ah, Frankeleyn thought, but did not say. It pleases you to remind the queen that your service is of substance. He had heard that Elizabeth did not have many congenial words for her dog Walsingham, but she did not take him for granted. She was a shrewd politician with respect to her choice of counsellors._

_“I assure you,” he said, looking at the fresh blood that splashed the grass, resisting the urge to go down on his knees and lick it up like a cat at a water dish. “I am well checked.”_

_As he left, heavy purse in hand, he thought about the boy. Once glamoured, he had not been unpleasant company on the journey from Calais. A brash youth, pious and full of piss and vinegar, he had shown a bravery that, while stupid, was still admirable. Jacques, that had been his name, now that Frankeleyn had troubled to remember it. Walsingham had racked him, of course, but there was nothing new for him to report. He was part of no conspiracy. He merely answered the call._

_A year passed. He intercepted ten more papal daggers. These days Sir Francis sent him in among the Queen of Scots’ allies, to manipulate and glamour, and generally midwife the birth of a conspiracy. Tedious work, but Walsingham paid him well._

_The whispers brushed Frankeleyn’s ears as they crossed the threshold into the great hall._

_“She may not marry the Earl of Leicester but she will wear the widow’s weeds when he finally leaves us.”_

_“It is said that Mary of Scots is for the headsman’s block.”_

_“Enough gossip,” Walsingham ordered. The two young lords fell quiet as though he had threatened to strike them, but there was no note but of calm in his voice. Sir Frankeleyn could see he was not well, could hear the weakness in his chest. But he could also sense the respect and fear of the courtiers around them. Little loved though he was, Francis Walsingham had risen high and grown rich on the currency of their secrets, and they knew better than to oppose him._

_It was a moderately sized hall, large enough to accommodate the queen’s retinue and courtiers. Together they danced in the middle of the hall, and Frankeleyn and Walsingham had to squeeze by in order to make their way up to the royal table. The hosting lord’s own tall seat had been proffered to Her Majesty, who was herself enjoying a cup of wine and half a roast pike. She was lively, with a great mane of red hair and a beautifully painted face. It could not disguise that she was an old woman, older than fifty. There was a light that was much older and more cunning in her dark eyes._

_Frankeleyn thought Walsingham would go and join the table, but he stopped short and caught the queen’s eye. She signalled to him, then turned and offered some choice words of gratitude to her fellow diners before excusing herself._

_“Again you come to prick us with this thorn, eh, Walsingham?” she said in a wry, harsh tone. She turned to Frankeleyn. “And you, sir, have you also come to feast on the Queen’s blood?”_

_Frankeleyn bowed deeply, trying to conceal his smile and failing. “I wouldn’t dream of it, madam.”_

_She sniffed. “Come outside, Sir Francis, and bring your creature.”_

_They followed their monarch out into the moonlit court yard. It was a full moon that night, and it picked out each and every one of the pearls sewn into the queen’s bodice. She was still fit for her advanced years, and her wit was as keen as ever, Frankeleyn could see. He had never truly given much thought to Elizabeth the woman. As a queen he assumed that she did as other queens did: followed the advice of their advisers, married the wrong princes and occasionally lost their heads. At a glance he could see that this was not the case. In the same glance he knew why he had been brought here._

_“What is your name, creature?” she asked of him, looking faintly amused. “You certainly are a prouder and finer specimen than is usual for Walsingham’s menagerie.”_

_“I have the honour to be Sir Frankeleyn Mott, madam.”_

_“Do you indeed?” she queried dryly. “How honoured will you feel when you realize your master has led you here to take his beating?”_

_Frankeleyn glanced at Walsingham’s impassive face, and then back at Elizabeth’s. “If your Majesty intends to apply the rod with your own hand, I should be twice honoured. Otherwise... about the same.”_

_She chuckled, and then looked to Walsingham. “Very well, I know you have been anxious to speak to us of this matter. You compel us to participate in this murder because you say it is vital to the protection of our life, but we would have these words confirmed by someone other than your own person.”_

_Walsingham moved to open his mouth but fell silent when she gestured for silence. No man could gesture thus to Sir Francis, but with his queen, he grudgingly deferred._

_She was brisk. “You, Sir Frankeleyn. We should like to hear your account. We would be intrigued to see if your master’s lies are sweeter from your lips.”_

_“Would that I lied, madam,” he said quietly. “I have intercepted many men, assassins and mercenaries, who intended harm to your person. This last aimed to do the same, but he was only a vassal of your enemies. I pretended to be his confidant and friend, and in return he told me he brought word of a papal bull issued in secret that promised help, arms and capital to any sovereign of Europe who cast you down. I saw the letter with my own eyes.”_

_She sighed. “And suppose it is our cousin Mary to whom this man reported? How tiresome.”_

_“The woman means to have you dead,” Walsingham interjected, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice._

_“That is why we watch her, Walsingham,” the queen said, snapping her fingers at him, then turned to Frankeleyn. “If you speak true and such a bull has been issued in Rome, then I expect you shall be very well employed for the future.”_

_“Indeed, madam.” Frankeleyn bowed again, feeling quite charmed by her refusal to be charming._

_She turned to leave, but then paused, looking down on his supplicating form. “Do not think that we are ungrateful, Sir Frankeleyn. We know of your ability and prowess. You, sir, might very well be the strongest barrier that stands between England and her enemies.”_

_She did not sugar this remark with any kind of sentiment, but left the courtyard and returned back to lighted hall._

Tara winced when his fangs came out of her neck. She felt saturated still in the world of his memory, and the blood that pulsed in her seemed to stroke the inside of her veins. She lifted her head from his throat, and looked up at him, his clouded face. He was still there, in that courtyard, with the venerable lady. It surprised Tara to see how short he had sold his place in history. Franklin (she had almost thought her Franklin, and blamed the drunkenness caused by his blood) was not one to demure when he had the opportunity to brag.

“You liked her a lot,” she said, quietly. “Even though she was just a human.”

“It was impossible not to,” he said, now contemplative. “Humans are still people, you know, and some people have strong character. Killing them would be unthinkable.”

“Is that how you decide?” She wondered, more to herself.

“You’ll learn,” he said, reaching down to stroke her hair, her face. “You were always well suited to this. You don’t go blindly into the night.”

She was comforted. She did not know why. She thought it might have something to do with the infusion of his blood. Or maybe it was her blood inside him, balancing him, giving him whatever it was he had lacked.

When the sun came, he fell asleep before she did. The effort of procuring the memory, she thought. She stroked his hair, black crow feathers, until she fell away into the darkness.


	9. Never Isn't That Long

_Six Months Later_

His Tara was a new person, he thought, and yet she was still Tara. Swathed in a black velvet coat, a slim black cigarette to hand, she looked cosmopolitan in a way only achievable in a cold climate. A touch of black on her eyelids, a gloss on her lips. Her gloved fingers elegant as she lifted the fag to her lips.

Moscow was busy, unimpeded by the snow. Franklin had not spent very much time here in recent years, but the atmosphere was just right for him. He shrugged inside his sable coat, looking out at his girl under a sharp black fedora. Moscow had been her choice, her desire to see somewhere cold, experience it for the first time. She had, in her wisdom, observed also that Moscow was a paradox of permissiveness (for those who could afford it) and common bigotry. A shadowy government, a powerful anti-vampire sentiment in the upper reaches, and yet a tolerance of all manner of vice made it perfect for them. Vampires were trendy among the glitterati, and even more in demand because of their taboo status. TruBlood was only sold in speakeasies and underground clubs. Vampires did not go to those clubs to drink TruBlood.

Vampires did not walk openly on Moscow’s streets, but it was a badly kept secret that they were becoming part of the city’s life. And what Franklin knew that mortals did not, and what the Vampire Authority suspected, was that Sanguinists were diligently infiltrating the Kremlin. Vampire murders were quietly covered up. Franklin wasn’t interested in the politics, but he did appreciate how much easier it was. For the moment, anyway.

Tara liked the billionaires. She liked the drug dealers. She wasn’t interested in the peasantry of Moscow. She liked to hunt in society, and enjoyed bringing down those who imagined themselves to be powerful.

This one had a young wife with a coke habit. She was skinny, but enough for a meal. The man himself was built like a linebacker- all shoulders and chest inside a twenty thousand dollar suit. They had been tracking this couple for days. Classy townhouse, off to a club, to a fine restaurant. They made a circuit that was fairly regular- wife goes to get her nails done, he is off to confer with his business interests. But what they- he and Tara- were waiting for was about to happen. The pair owned a yacht, the _Falcon,_ which was much bulkier than the name suggested. Some trip, some river cruise is in the offing. It was ideal.

“Don’t they have to invite us in?” Tara asked, flicking away the cigarette as she watched the couple get into the back of their limo.

“No,” Franklin said, touching a hand to her shoulder. “I’ve never been able to work it out, but there’s something different about boats.”

They were there ahead of the couple, hiding in the light tight holds below. Ships were always a safe bet, as certain compartments needed to be watertight, which meant there was no space for light to come in. They waited, they slept, and in the dusk they woke hungry.

Tara didn’t like to glamour them. She prefered the blood boiling and seething, pumping in great waves from the terrified pounding heart. So they had faced the couple to each other while they fed. Franklin took his time with the woman, the poor little addled trophy, sipping from her. They had information from her, while Franklin promised she would live. Where was the ship going? To the sea, to the sea. Was she being expected by anyone? Ah, a party, one of those...a sex party. There were going to be cameras. So no one will report you missing if you don’t arrive. Good girl, good girl.

He left her a little bit alive, as good as his word. Tara had made no such promises. The big man was a shell by the time she was finished.

“You little glutton,” Franklin said, amused. She looked at him, her mouth slathered with blood.

“Pot calling the kettle black, honey,” she purred. “Why didn’t you finish that one? That’s cruel, Franklin.”

The little coke wife was twitching, convulsing now. Still alert, but dying as her heart exhausted itself. Franklin shrugged. Tara went over to her, reached down and tore the woman’s throat out with one hand. The twitching stopped. Tara licked her fingers, and smiled that come-get-me-smile that gave him an instant cock stand every time he saw it. She could do that to him, wash waves of desire over him, invoke his arousal with her blood as he had once done with his. He only did it now when she was already open for him, already craving him.

He fucked her in the slippery puddle of gore, taking his time about it. She stretched out languidly beneath him, her breasts glossed with blood, her eyes half closed with perfect catlike laziness. Full to the brim with human blood, he did not sink fangs into her, but simply watched her as he laid into her with long, deep strokes. She writhed like a snake under him, her bloody hands leaving wet red prints on his body. Even on his face, which made her smile. And when she leaned up to lick the blood off his cheek, he came in a hard jet. But she, always full of surprises, was not finished with him yet. His world turned and he fell back into the wetness as she straddled him. Her body glistened with red, and he reached up to touch her, but his hand was slapped away. Instead, she fixed her own hand around his throat, and rolled her hips. He arched into her, even as he fingertips dug into his throat, threatening to pierce his flesh. He almost wished she would, but she held back. Saving the real violence for later. The things he had let her do to him…

When she came, it was hard. The moment that control had gone from her, he leaned up and wrapped his arms around her, holding her pinned to him as she convulsed and cried out.

“Franklin,” she gasped. “Fuck. Yes.”

He licked her throat, cleaning a streak of brown under the red wetness. Tara shuddered, and clung to him. Together they remained, leaning into each other.

“I want to go,” Tara said, after a long moment.

“Hrm?” Franklin was still a little dazed. She did that to him more and more, he found.

“The party. The one she talked about, I want to go.”

He considered this. “Are you sure, princess?”

“Yeah,” she kissed him. “I want to go on a voyage. We could stay out for weeks with that kind of stock.”

“I love the way you think,” he said, pressing his mouth to her temple.

“I love you.”

He drew back, and stared at her. She seemed surprised at herself, and bit her lip, looking into his eyes with her own wide dark ones. Suddenly she was just a girl, a fraction of his age. So young.

“Do you mean that?” he asked seriously.

“I must be crazy,” she said in a shaky voice. “I mean...I still feel so much rage. But you feel so fucking good. And...you’ve been good to me. I’m surprised by that more than anything.”

“I was going to kill you,” he said suddenly. “At Russell’s. I was going to enjoy you first...maybe entertain the idea of turning you, but I would’ve forgotten and drained you dry. Might’ve cried a little after.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I knew when you didn’t. I said it before, you’re a fucking child.”

“I was an unutterable fool,” he admitted. “You’re right, a complete fucking child. But you’ve changed me. You’ve given me purpose. I adore you.”

“How much?” her eyes were bright, smile teasing.

“I’d die before I ever let anyone hurt you.”

She considered that. “No one can hurt me. No one human, anyway.”

“No one ever will, I swear it.”

“Not even you?”

He licked his lips. “Not unless you want me to.”

“Do you love me?” It wasn’t a test. She sincerely wanted to know.

“You know I do. You can taste it in my blood.”

“I can feel it, when your blood is inside me.” She closed her eyes. “I love that feeling.”

He moved inside her, making himself hard again, for her. She whimpered as he thrust up into her, making that sound he adored, that very same little moan she’d made for him when he’d had her first.

“Drink me,” he said, turning his head for her. She didn’t hesitate, her fangs- large, sharp, shaped like his own- dipped into his flesh. He turned his head, slid his fangs into her neck, and sipped on that spicy Tara blood. He could taste it in her, too, the uncertainty, the doubt, all of that shaking on the edges of her resentment and hate. More than anything, he could taste her need for him, her hope. He had teased her out, discovering her past, her trauma. She’d endured as badly as he had, in her short life. She needed someone so desperately to be her rock, and he, Franklin, had not been expected as a likely candidate.

“Don’t ever leave me,” she whispered when they broke away from each other.

Franklin pressed her down into the blood soaked carpet, and covered her with his body. “Never.”

He fucked her until she came, blood weeping from her eyes, and then did it again, pouring himself into her until dawn came, and they slept.


	10. Chapter 10

Sookie could not remember the last time she’d had a quiet night at Merlotte’s. But for some reason, folk were staying home tonight. Maybe it was the unseasonable chill. Or maybe it was some other reason. Either way, with the exception of a snoozing Jane Bodehouse, there was no one at the bar, and only one couple passing through sitting at the booth near the wall. She’d told Arlene to go home, and had contented herself with loitering by the waitress station.

“Sam,” she called back to the office. “I’m going to start my closing now.”

“‘Kay,” came back faintly. He was taking advantage of the quiet time to catch up on the books.

Sookie looked back to the bar, which was powerfully empty without Tara. She had been gone for nearly eight months. Killed, presumably, by Franklin. They’d looked- of course they’d looked, but Franklin’s trail had gone cold in Las Vegas. Bill, as the king of Louisiana, had been able to requisition certain information from the hotels, but that’s as far as it led. No one had seen or heard of the bounty hunter since then.

So it was with considerable surprise (and near cardiac arrest) than Sookie turned to see Tara standing at the threshold. She was dressed in a silk chambray and soft black buckskin pants, her hair in thick waves. The boots on her feet were easily six hundred dollars worth of real snake skin. And the man behind her was a black shadow, dark haired, white skinned, obviously dead.

“Oh my god,” Sookie said. “Tara.”

She could not hear a single thought, and the arms that embraced her were welcoming, but unyielding.

“Sookie.”

Sookie peered over her shoulder at the man- was it Franklin? It must be, though she had never actually laid eyes on him. His smile was cursory and settled into something more amused than gracious.

“Sookie, I just came to say goodbye.”

“No, Tara, stay. Please stay. Have a TruBlood. Tell me what happened.”

“She’s cute,” Franklin said, his English accent as sharp as a papercut. Then he winced as Tara slammed her heel down on his toe. “Ow.”

“Don’t mind Franklin,” Tara said, glaring back at her maker. “He’s never mastered the art of manners.”

“That is an outright lie,” Franklin sulked. “I am very good at pretending I have manners.”

“Fool me once,” Tara said, though there was an alien note of tolerance in her voice. She gave Sookie a small smile, and then headed towards the bar. Franklin followed in her wake, eyes only for her. Sookie thought it was strange- normally vampires immediately took an interest in her, drawn by her faerie blood. But Franklin wasn’t remotely interested in anyone but Tara.

“Can I tell Sam?” Sookie ventured, uncapping two TruBloods for the pair.

“I suppose you’d better,” Tara said, a little wearily.

Sookie turned and went down the hall, but stopped halfway, and glanced back at them. Tara and Franklin seemed to be communicating in some unspoken language. When Franklin kissed her forehead, she leaned into it. One of her hands had linked into his. It was confounding. Franklin was not supposed to be a good guy, and it seemed very unlikely that he’d reformed. And yet, here Tara was, wearing him like a sable coat.

“Sam,” Sookie said gently at the door.

“Come on in, I’m about done,” he said, clicking off his computer.

“It’s Tara.”

Sam looked, at her, and then lifted a hand to his mouth. “She’s dead.”

“Well…” Sookie said.

“Oh my god.”

Sookie followed after him as he pelted towards the bar. He stopped short, staring with full amazement at the vampire couple perched on his bar stools. At the sight of him, Franklin looped a possessive arm over Tara’s shoulder. She shoved him off, and went to Sam.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Christ, you had us worried sick,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around her. “Why didn’t you call or anything?”

“I just...I needed to be away from people for a while, Sam.”

“You,” Sam said, glaring at Franklin as he moved Tara gently aside. “You did this to her.”

“And I would again.” Franklin said blandly, though his mouth twisted unpleasantly.

“Franklin,” Tara said warningly. “We talked about this.”

He picked up his TruBlood and sipped through the straw, looking so much like a scolded child that Sookie had to hide her smile. Tara turned to him, and he set down the bottle, his whole focus tunnelling down to her.

“Go on,” he said, touching her cheek with his knuckles. “I’ll be here.”

Tara kissed him, and then silently they left him at the bar and went into Sam’s office.

“My god,” Sam said as he sat down in his office chair. Sookie understood how he felt, but she herself felt nothing but relief. She could sense his confusion, his disappointment.

“Where have you been?” she asked, cutting across whatever Sam was intending to say.

“A lot of places. Europe, mostly,” Tara said, shifting from one foot to the other. Sookie realized it was the first time she had never heard her best friend’s thoughts. She was very truly undead, and yet there was a glow about her, a confidence and contentedness she had never seen. She seemed comfortable in her own skin.

Sookie found it difficult to square that with the predator at the bar. Franklin, from everything she had heard, had a deeply unsavoury reputation as a stalker and murderer of young women. How had Tara survived his affections? She wanted to ask, but Tara anticipated her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she murmured. “I don’t know how to account for it. He says I changed him, and maybe I did. I don’t think he really planned on me, though.”

“Tara, he’s crazy.”

She nodded, but there was just a hint of fondness in her expression. Sookie suddenly caught herself wondering if Franklin had not also changed her. She thought of Loraina, of the all-consuming cruelty, and how it had ultimately repelled Bill. But here was Tara, on the arm of this monster, and she seemed to have genuine feeling for him. Sookie didn’t know what to make of it.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, finally. “I mean, really? Because if you aren’t, we could-”

“I’m okay,” Tara said, with a small, wistful smile. “I’m safe.”

It was the way she said it, heavy with the knowledge that safe was something Tara had never felt, that made Sookie decide to shelve her curiosity. She was no stranger to vampires, had no illusions now about their natures. A vampire could, she had decided, be forgiven for that. Maybe she wasn’t ready to forgive Franklin, but if Tara had, then she had no right to question that.

She had left them with a smile and a hug, and she and Franklin had gone out together, her arm through his. Sookie was tempted to follow, but instead, she remained, and wondered if she would ever see Tara again.


End file.
